


Symphony Of Our Souls

by AnalystProductions



Category: Death Note, Death Note & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music, Classical Music, I FINALLY UPDATED CAN YOU BELIEVE., M/M, Musicians, conservatoire battles, death note in a musical setting (hopefully), i just wanted to write a musician au, i should redo all these tags, musician au, the most self-indulgent thing i have ever written lmao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 08:11:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4384055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnalystProductions/pseuds/AnalystProductions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The musical partnership of Light Yagami and L Lawliet, two of the world's brightest upcoming musicians, has the power to move not only themselves but the entire world around them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. perpetuum mobile

**Author's Note:**

> Well here it is! My first Death Note multi-chap. I'm quite excited to share this and hope you will enjoy. I've been wanting to write a musician story for some time! It's been a while since I've been able to write so I'll keep this short and sweet.
> 
> I hope you enjoy the first part! 
> 
> MUSIC FOR THE CHAPTER - 
> 
> Diegetic: 
> 
> Jazz Suite No. 2: II. Lyric Waltz - Dmitri Shostakovich {Wammy's Symphony Orchestra - rehearsal]  
> Nocturno Op. 7 (Horn and Piano) - Franz Strauss {L Lawliet - recording} 
> 
> Non-Diegetic/Playlist: 
> 
> Start At The Beginning - Among Savages  
> Peer Gynt Suite #1, Op. 46 - 3. Anitra's Dance - Edvard Grieg  
> Until The End - Jenasis  
> Science - Two Steps From Hell  
> Walt - Yoko Kanno

 

Beyond concludes for the fourth time today, waltzing down the corridor to the remnants of Shostakovich’s second movement of Jazz Suite No. 2 which dances through his ears from the recital hall, that Wammy’s Conservatoire for the musically gifted is a contrived nonsensical institution he should have left _long ago._ Although upon closer inspection, waltzing perhaps is not an apt description of his movements. A waltz is _light,_ rounded with a subtle momentum ever propelling forwards. In contract, the Hispanic teen borders an overtly playful scherzo with each bold step, deliberate in breaking the casual lilted rhythm. 

Yet if one were to ask, he would adamantly declare this was indefinitely a waltz. It’s one of his own invention, of course. Many here are incapable of such a thing - _true_ invention and individual expression. As his eyes blithely gaze over his prestigious surroundings, almost every crevasse of this building is obsessively covered with reminders of success _and_ succession, Beyond sways as the symphonic strings sweep through him mercilessly with the gentle intensity of a growing flame.

Music is full of wonderful inexplicable paradoxes like this, he muses. It can be both relentless and cautious, forgiving and punishing. It’s a powerful force - destructive even some may say. Countless times a seemingly familiar melody betrays him unexpectedly in a phrase, setting his insides ablaze with newfound whisperings. Kindling the world of sound, only to come to the realisation that perhaps this fire has been kindling _you._ Beyond maintains that’s the most enthralling part of it all, to leap into this inferno so it burns your very insides, becoming an insatiable fever.

He arrives at his destination with two more lyrical steps. A little flamboyantly, for the sake of indulging the flourish of bright woodwinds decorating the conservatoire’s orchestra, Beyond steps into the office. The music enters the room alongside him, reluctantly taking its leave as the door closes. Just as expected, the bookshelves are teaming; everything besides the stack of manuscripts scattered across the piano stool is meticulously in place. The manuscript which, Beyond assumes, is the latest chorale assignment set by Professor Roger Ruvie.

Catching sight of _that name_ sprawled messily across a page at the top of the pile (because there is little else _he_ could be than towering above the rest), he reaches instinctively and sits by the piano. Lips twitching, in both amusement and irritation, Beyond touches his fingers to the marble keys and maps out the first chord progression with ease. As much as he hopes for sinful doubling or the presence of parallel fifths, the harmonisation is flawless. In fact, Beyond’s sure if he were to compare this to the _Reimenschneider_ that bloody bastard would be potentially as convincing as Johann Sebastian Bach himself.

The final chord disappears with a bite, the pedal released abruptly from his foot. He supposes there are far more despicable things he could do to attack L Lawliet’s chorale. The most laughable part of it all is that he’s uncertain if he would be able to commit to much worse than intentionally poor pedalling. For good measure he tosses the manuscript to the floor, picking up another student’s attempt. He’s halfway through a poorly executed suspension when Roger finally stands from the armchair in the corner and speaks.

“You’re a fine pianist, B.” The second phrase of the chorale fills the brief pause.

“I’m sure you didn’t call me here simply to state the obvious.” Beyond remarks with a smirk, embellishing the melodic line excessively as if to further emphasise the man’s words. Whilst distasteful, it marginally improves the insipid work he’s ploughing through. Roger shuffles on his feet, confirming everything Beyond had anticipated.

“So it’s _really_ come to this?” he barely suppresses the bark of disbelief in his voice, fingers no longer engaging but hovering over the piano keys. Already, he’s painfully aware of how this awkward _Serenade_ will sound.

“Beyond,” Raising a brow curiously, _so it’s no longer B,_ Beyond swings his full attention from the piano to Roger and waits for the words he _really_ doesn’t want to hear. “I’m going to have to ask that you accompany Lawliet in his upcoming recital."

Ah, _there it is_ \- because nothing in this entire facility can evade the great L. Somehow, either in blatant reverence or intricate dedication, that name gathers the focus of not just Wammy’s Conservatoire but the whole world. Though it’s unsurprising given the musicianship of this man, of course. Beyond swallows down the automatic and speedy ‘no’ about to leave his lips, chiding himself for _almost_ losing this game. Instead, he dares to loiter in the conversation break he’s supposed to fill.

To most, Roger’s words would not infer a question at all. It would serve as a command. But the only things Beyond ever even _considers_ following are the musical markings on a score. It appears the Professor is aware of this, moving to his usual seat behind the mahogany desk in the centre of the office. Clasping his hands together, Roger continues.

“You always used to play for him-”

“-Lord knows why I ever did _anything_ for him.” Beyond quips, exasperation edging into his voice. The days of playing piano for L Lawliet are unforgettable and infallibly etched into his memory. Only with him would it be possible to simultaneously have a fifteen-minute explanation on phrasing bordering patronising _and_ glimpse at a beautiful performance during the demonstration of his points. Catching the glazed expression, Roger adjusts his thin-wired glasses which have slipped down his nose. 

“It’s easy to get swept into L’s aura,” The Professor admits quietly enough to be overlooked if Beyond wished to dwell further in his memories. However, his next words lure the pianist in sharply. “as it is to want to receive his recognition.”

These words earn an eye roll. Beyond abandons the piano stool to sit directly opposite Roger. The moment he does so he’s longing for the security of the piano again, fingers tapping against his thighs. To be without an instrument leaves one with scarcely any scope for expression and hiding. He’s always wondered how singers do it, putting them very selves in the spotlight. Once upon a time he craved the spotlight, _his_ spotlight.

“Those days are _over_ ,” Beyond states, though it’s more for the sake of himself than for the conversation. “I want nothing more than to chart my own musical course.” The declaration would be almost convincing, if Beyond’s eyes didn’t catch the manuscript discarded on the floor from earlier wistfully. Although he’s quick to train his gaze back on Roger, it’s moments too late and the Professor has read everything in that small gesture.

“And yet, you recently purchased a _Holton_ H378 I believe.”

Beyond stiffens in his seat, fingers digging into his washed out denim jeans. He despises how much his body responds to the words that certainly have no purpose other than attempting to hold leverage over him, how he’s incapable of feigning the ignorance he _wants_ to have on the subject of L Lawliet. Despite his evasive manoeuvres, that damned name holds him here too much. Far too much. Most believe he hasn’t picked up a French Horn since the days he was studying at the academy, a malleable impressionable youth moulded ruthlessly to suit L’s musical style.

But that’s a terrible lie, and the truth is evermore terrible.

Even when he climbs into a practice room through the window in the early hours of the night when nobody _but him_ is around, Beyond pretends he plays the French Horn for himself. The fact he deliberately chooses a time where only he and L Lawliet would frequent the practice rooms to refine his skills is pretty pathetic. Gritting his teeth, _damn it all,_ Beyond sees a flash of pity in the Professor’s eyes. And that’s all it takes for him to be swallowed whole by an overwhelming, sickening feeling. Roger got it just right after all in one familiar word: _recognition._

“Perhaps it’s my fault, and Watari’s, for how we trained you. But you needn’t chase after L and his musicianship.”

In dark amusement, Beyond brings a thumb up to his mouth and slides it in to graze his teeth.

“Do you know what most people call me, Roger?” he asks, thumb almost absorbing the heaviness in his voice that wasn’t there before. Upon observation, everything about the pianist seems to suddenly suffer from the same effect. The shadows under his eyes outstretch further, his posture curves. Removing the thumb from his mouth, as if having proved his point, Beyond meets the Professor’s eyes unnervingly.

“The _pastiche._ ”

Roger winces, unable to maintain eye contact, and Beyond supposes that’s one rare thing he can delight in these days. It would be _easy_ to blame the Professor for the series of past events, but there’s only one person who is truly responsible and yet so _irresponsible_ with their influence. L Lawliet does as he pleases when he pleases. Though, he doesn’t parade around like the prized jewel the institution treats him as in the conventional sense. No, he’s far subtler. He doesn’t lead – he moves; the world simply trails after him in awe.

Like with his musical interpretations, his presence alone makes people feel compelled to listen. They’ll crane their necks to catch a glimpse, lean out of their chairs. Beyond’s certain the man could render Pachelbel’s Canon in a bold, _innovative_ fashion effortlessly. For the fifth time today, he thinks he really ought to leave this place. The thought is less fleeting this time around.

Here, he can be little else than the failed imitation, the fool’s gold.

“I’m not playing piano for him.” Beyond saunters towards the door, hoping his retreat doesn’t mimic one of fleeing prey.

He should leave with haste, before the Professor can coax him further with carefully chosen words that scrape just beneath the surface. The final recitals are just six weeks away, and Beyond Birthday hasn’t played piano for _him_ in over three years. Roger really is desperate to find an accompanist given that fact. Perhaps he would consider _anything_ at this stage. Something playful tugs at Beyond’s lips as a dangerous – but brilliant – idea comes to him in realisation of this.  

Spinning around with newfound flare, Beyond smirks.

“Why don’t you call in Yagami?”

Momentary confusion settles between the creases in Roger’s brow as he mulls over the suggestion. The Yagami name is often first associated with Sir Soichiro Yagami, one of the world’s finest flautists. But his son’s growing reputation is almost as pressing as L Lawliet’s, particularly after the Chopin concert series last year.

“ _Light_ Yagami.” Roger looks for confirmation, clearly unsettled by this proposal.

“Yes - I’m sure that haughty princess would love to play for _the_ L,” Beyond leers. “They’re one and the same.”

“You know how L feels about the Kira Academy and their musical philosophy.”

The _whole world_ knows how L feels about the Kira Academy. He openly dismisses it and its programme whenever the opportunity arises to do so. Sometimes, he doesn’t wait for an opportunity to strike. Relations between the two conservatoires have never been completely amicable, but L has created a vast rift between the two institutions that is unsalvageable. It’s _perfect._ This partnership will be deliciously entertaining. Undoubtedly word will spread; two prodigies thrown together and placed under the pressure of producing a timeless, sublime performance.

“Very well. I’ll make the call.” Reaching for the phone on his desk, Roger frowns at Beyond’s wolfish grin whilst dialling the number. “I _do_ hope you’re not scheming.”

“I don’t _scheme_ ,” Beyond coos, and this time he _does_ waltz as he exits the office. “I devise.”

  

It’s a chance Light Yagami would be foolish to pass up. When his mobile rings, he’s sandwiched between his very own gothic duo who never seem to quite understand the concept of personal space. He wonders, always so fixated on keeping up appearances and wearing masks, what people see as they gaze over towards the three of them: a well-dressed Japanese exchange student, a rosy-cheeked bubbly blonde with copious amounts of energy, and finally the bronze-skinned student obsessed with apples and the quirkiest dress sense Light is sure _only_ Ryuk can accomplish.

Misa Amane clasps his arm in a vice-grip, leaning in curiously the moment the phone touches his ear. On his other side Ryuk crunches on his apple obscenely loud. The Professor – Roger – appears not to mind that Light had found himself politely asking him to repeat the words lost as a result. Once the call ends, his friends give him barely enough time to snap the phone shut and register the request himself. 

“Who was it Light?” Misa asks immediately with urgency. “ _Tell us_!” she squeezes his arm for emphasis. The vast array of inflections in her voice, accompanied by the high shriek at the end of her exclamation, is ever a reminder that Misa Amane is a soprano scholar. Hovering by his left shoulder, Ryuk grins widely as Light fails to pry himself away from the enthusiastic girl.

“Yeah,” he adds through a poorly stifled laugh. “Why don’t you tell us, Light?”

Sighing, Light Yagami closes his eyes briefly to regain his composure. With a gentle nudge, he’s finally successful in peeling Misa from his arm. Folding his arms across his chest, Light glances between the pair of them incredulously. He’s grateful for the narrowing of their path ahead. Although two can fit beneath the archway of Alder trees, Ryuk and Misa fall behind him in sync.

“I was _going to.”_ he states simply over his shoulder, the annoyance seeping into his tone. When certain he has their undivided attention, Light continues.

“Wammy’s Conservatoire has offered me a paid role as an accompanist-”

“-Eh?!” Misa’s eyes widen comically, evidently surprised by the information. “You’re going to _Wammy’s?!_ But they are our enemies! _”_ Balling her fists, she fans the blonde hair from her eyes with an indignant huff. “Misa will not let Light go – it _must_ be a trap!”

Despite the institutions’ acting as nemeses, this statement is melodramatic. Students from either conservatoire do little to aggravate each other, besides the taunts during the annual music festivals in which their ensembles compete for first place. Most of this ‘enemy’ nonsense has spewed from L’s continuous – and unjustified – denouncement of the Kira Academy. It should make Light a little nervous, but the prospect of such a challenge has ignited the determination to win and not only improve the Kira Academy’s reputation, but to prove his own skill.

“I’m going Misa, you can’t stop me.” He declares, turning his back to resume walking towards his dormitory. The sunlight trickles through the leaves above, pirouetting across his face.

“You never played piano for _Misa.”_ She says accusingly, spewing a tirade of words to herself in a hushed tone.

“She’s right you know Light,” Ryuk observes with a shrug, throwing the apple core into the greenery carelessly. “You’ve never played for _anyone_ before _._ ”

It’s no secret that Light Yagami dislikes ensemble work unless the piano is soloistic in nature. For such a pure instrument to be subservient is an injustice in his opinion. The piano harnesses an entire realm of its own, extending further than just simply sound. It’s a vast landscape waiting to be explored. There are mountains with deep jagged lines against a low rumbling drone, there are undulating rivers trickling downwards towards resolution, scorched deserts with hopeful mirages, stinging glaciers and areas ravaged by hurricanes. Whilst others may argue their instrument is capable of such things, Light Yagami is adamant on this.

“Yeah well, this is different.”

It _is_ different – it’s the opportunity to work with a musician currently at the top of their respected field. A musician who also is constantly stealing _his_ potential opportunities and not even bothering to take advantage of the ample resources available. The thought irks him more than it should. He’s been keeping tabs on L Lawliet for a few years now, and has even sought out recordings of his performances to listen to. The guy is talented, granted. But there are ghastly rumours of unorthodox methods alongside the well-known fact that he cannot keep a pianist for longer than a single concert, sometimes _less_.

Light recalls reading about an incident where the accompanist stormed out in the intermission and vowed to never work with the world’s greatest. Somehow, of course, this particular concert became a memorable event for an entirely different reason: the music-making. To captivate people in such a way they almost forget the fact the pianist changed halfway through is pretty impressive. Part of Light cannot think of anything better than being the one to snatch all this away and surpass his only obstacle.

“I’ll be playing with L.” Light concludes, promptly ignoring Misa’s predictable protests.

“Heh heh,” Ryuk rakes a hand through his spikey black hair, clearly delighted by this controversial turn of events. “Things are about to get _so very interesting._ It’s been pretty boring around here at the moment, wouldn’t you agree?”

Light nods in agreement. Boring _doesn’t quite_ cut it. After all, there’s only so many times one can play Beethoven’s _Moonlight Sonata_ – jokes made on his name aside – without wanting to naturalise every sharp in the key signature one by one and watch the horrified expressions of his audience as he massacres it. The lectures are long and monotonous; he’s skimmed the required reading twice in hope for inspiration to hit but it never comes.

Music without inspiration is futile. He places one the earphones into his ear, slightly dimming Misa’s words which have briskly modulated and changed their tune.

“I guess it’s quite exciting actually, working with _the L!_ ”

The melody oozes through the earphone into his mind, enhancing his surroundings. The world makes more sense this way, a backdrop to the picture music paints. A smile traces his lips and does no go unmissed.

“Who’re you listening to?” Ryuk reaches for the spare earphone. Placing it into his own ear before his mischievous friend can figure it out, Light quickens his pace.

“My father, of course.”  

Co-incidentally, it’s not the recordings of his father that inspire him the most. It’s those tracks deliberately labelled ‘unknown artist’, one of which is currently playing out. The horn rises majestically through the texture at the same moment the sun bursts free from behind the clouds. Light feels his skin tingling; L Lawliet’s performances transcend into extraordinary experiences time after time. His fingers instinctively etch the piano line into the air as he dares to dream of what they may actually achieve together.


	2. stretto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me a while to finish this off, but I really hope the wait is worth it! I'm looking forward to working on the next chapter so much. The piece in the rehearsal was going to be York Bowen's Horn Sonata but as you will see, I've tried to capture the music. And I wanted to do some analysis first and then apply it to the story, so that will come later on!! Also, can you tell I've been reading some really interesting research about Music and Language x). I'm hoping with this story to make commentary not just on characters, but on some subjects and issues in music. 
> 
> There's so much I want to say about this and ahhh - I'll keep quiet and let the story do the talking for now!! 
> 
> MUSIC FOR THE CHAPTER -
> 
> Non-Diegetic/Playlist:
> 
> Maybe - Alina Baraz & Galimatias  
> Slavonic Dance No. 2, Op. 72 - Antonín Dvořák (London Philharmonic Orchestra)  
> Jazz Suite No. 2: VIII. Finale - Dmitri Shostakovich (this whole suite has become Beyond Birthday's anthem)  
> Life In Waiting - I.V  
> Wow - Ofei  
> Livewire - Oh Wonder  
> Symphony No. 4 in F Minor, Op. 36: III. Scherzo: Allegro - Tchaikovsky (Tbilisi Symphony Orchestra)

 

"We'll start at the top and do a full play through, no breaks."

Light hears a rich baritone absently remark from inside the practice room the second he opens the door. It's a large, bland space: pale yellow walls with grey carpet. A grand piano - Steinway - is tucked into the corner, such a modest unflattering position for the marvellous instrument. Even with its presence, the room is uninspiring and without influence. Save for the extravagant, calligraphic letter embossed into the back wall. Perhaps, L marks the spot.

"Do I need to repeat myself, Light Yagami?"

Startled, Light searches for the source of the monotone, spotting the prolific musician appearing from behind the piano as if to suggest he was intentionally hiding. His back is curved, a slur encompassing a musical phrase; each protruding nodule of his spine a part of this unrefined engaging melody. Slender fingers are staves in which the writer entrusts his greatest works to fall upon. Dilated pupils full of energy - a bright staccato against the thick, dark tenuto lines beneath his eyes. Unruly black curls of hair, a cluster of chromaticism amidst the pallid tones of his skin.

"You're L?" Light tries his best to keep the incredulity from his words. But given the pointed stare he receives, he fails. It's not quite he insult it definitely sounds, though. This man is the most interesting phrase he's ever tried to envisage. It's a hobby of his, categorising people into musical styles and sometimes given the chance he's even able to narrow it down to one piece of music. For instance, Misa Amane is the personification of the infamous Habanera from _Carmen._ Ryuk is inevitably a mix of Miles Davis and Herbie Hancock. But L Lawliet doesn't seem to look like a distinct sound at all. He wonders how his fingers would articulate such a thing against the piano.  

When L inhales, Light expects him to speak and introduce himself formally. However, he brings his instrument to his lips and plays. Blinking, Light watches L sink effortlessly into the piece - their piece. Clearly, no customary pleasantries then. The pure sound resonating from the French Horn, the vast array of colours it ignites - the room is no longer pale yellow but swathed in vibrant blues and greens - lures Light Yagami in. No recording on his iPod, no critics' review of a concert performance quite captures its brilliance. Extending past the incredible technical security that does not come without endless toiling regardless of talent, there is that distinctive bold style. It's the unmistakable and original playing of L.

And as Light sits at the piano, scrambling to locate the bar of music the Horn ploughs through, he revels in the faultless melody. It's so convincing despite the lack of accompaniment, it hardly feels like a rehearsal at all. Heat floods his cheeks when Light realises the Horn has lingered far too long on the Fermata, undoubtedly for his sake. Taking the cue, Light dives in without hesitation. He recalls his father's encouraging words on the phone when hearing of this partnership. It would be unwise to waste any second in the presence of a potential equal. Together, they move towards the next section in the usual awkward attempt at unison every first play through has. Only, it doesn't last as long as predicted.

Within moments, they aren't engaging in monologues, they're conversing. Music is a language in its own right, rooted deep into the human conscious and cognition. Though lacking the presence of words, the inflection of a melody holds as much - if not more - character and substance. Light prefers to speak this way, tentatively tapping the bass of the piano which rumbles in disagreement against the musings of the French Horn. In response, L Lawliet lengthens the next passage ever so slightly, as if emphasising every syllable of his dialogue. Light interjects with jagged remarks littered across the piano, which simply nudges the conversation towards a more playful duel of wits.

As a rule, L Lawliet ensures to always overestimate the abilities of his pianists in hope they would at least prove to some degree they could pique his interest with their work. So far, only one had come somewhat close to his towering - unrealistic, Watari often reprimands - expectations. But that partnership was unsustainable; stained with obsession and marred by the constant desire for praise. It was hardly a partnership, an idealist playing with his former idol at best.

Compared to the past, Light Yagami is both refreshing and infuriating. There's technical capabilities, fingers meeting the demands the manuscript with trained skill. But this transparency reveals little else. Not to mention he doesn't allow L a moment of attention, snatching it away frequently. There's no hierarchy of soloist and accompanist, nor even an equal weighting. Light Yagamil plays as if this is a Piano Sonana with Horn and he is the main event, not a Horn Sonata with - _with being the key word_ \- piano. It's as bold as it is insulting.

Nobody has ever been so blasé, to try and overwhelm L's leading role before. And so, immaturely, the piece plummets from its original intentions to become a platform for a game. Because he hates to lose, L breathes a little more forcefully and refuses to let the piano breakthrough the barricade of sound. Light slams his hands down like a petulant child who also hates to lose, chords stomping heavily in the background. L swipes them away with a gust of notes, a repetitive melody growing ever more frantic. Any other pianist would heed the warming, and match the tempo. Light challenges it, pushing forwards. L pulls back stubbornly. Gruffly, the piano falters against the strong tug, no less unyielding in its brief defeat.

Neither force acknowledges the other's argument, both striving for the spotlight, the last word. And perhaps Light ought to be subservient to the familiar Horn line and follow typical conventions of Western Art Music, but the quickening piano motif cuts through the texture. It's so exhilarating he can hardly blame his fingers for their impulsive decisions. Impulsive, _yes_ he's rarely so daring in anything. Yet this moment here somehow has him tossing every well-practiced etiquette out the window, which co-incidentally students are huddled, nosing through the glass to gaze at the duo.

L builds the oncoming forte into a fortissimo, Horn scolding the disobedient piano. In that moment, Light withdraws and suddenly falls into a brooding pianissimo. L imitates the effect, creating a bell-like echo against the preceding phrase. The pair ebb into private murmurings one would feel excited and rude to eavesdrop. Logical by nature, Light knows it's impossible to have electricity coursing through his veins but that's the best way to describe the explosive sensation in his fingertips, the best match for this experience.

He's always read this particular movement of this Sonata to be a comedic sparring between the two instruments, something seldom brought to the forefront due to the overall darker themes of the work. Light thinks it's ridiculous to even infer a movement cannot subvert the themes, or have its own substance.

The conversation shifts. Insistent and exasperated, the French Horn calls between intervallic fifths for the piano. Semi quavers chase the questions, the piano propelling into a response swiftly. L asks again, more leisurely and assuming. Rather this comply so easily, the piano bites down on an accented Neapolitan sixth. The Horn huffs; the glissando is a sigh. Chiming in the high register, the piano laughs and Light stifles his own mirth at the genuine discussion unfolding.

Fifteen minutes later, and the final gloating chord of the piano resounds between he musicians. Lifting his foot from the pedal, allowing the notes to loiter longer on the corners of the room than necessary, Light glances over at L. Just like during the whole movement, his hunched back is all Light can glimpse. A roar of applause from the audience gathered round the window distracts him. The crowd disperses instantly as L turns his head in their direction.

"That was sound." He concludes finally, more to himself than to the pianist.

Light drums his fingers against his thighs rhythmically to the remnants of their rehearsal in his mind. Sound is not quite the word he would use to describe such a sensation. Half-heartedly searching for some kind of way to surmise the rehearsal, Light catches sight of the empty music stand.

"You don't have any music." He lamely offers, chiding himself for such a blatant statement.

Shrugging, the musician cradles his French Horn under his arm. It's a controversial and perilous way to hold such an expensive, delicate instrument. Absently, Light strokes the piano keys as if to console them they would never face such treatment. He doubts Roger Ruvie would allow the Steinway to be prepared for avant-garde compositions. Amusement flickers in L's eyes briefly.

"It trusts me." He explains, gesturing down to this apparent sentient instrument. "If there is no trust, then one cannot expect music herself to trust you in seeing and replicating her true form."

Unsure why that sounds more like an observation related to him, Light hums in feigned interest. Really, the general message of the words may hold some accuracy, but they're incredibly self-righteous and presumptuous. For starters, Light has never associated the entity of music as a woman before.

"I guess." Is all he finds on his tongue when he opens his mouth. This time it's disappointment that flickers in L's eyes. Light assumes he was supposed to churn some poetic drivel about how the piano trusts him.

"You don't think music could be a woman." It’s the exposition of an inevitable dispute. There's an accusation there, and Light winces despite the absurdity of it all.

"I don't think music can be _anything_ without us." Light replies, tactfully evading such an implicating question.

"Music is everywhere. We don't make it," setting his instrument down on the ridge of the grand piano, L slides his fingers over its surface with quiet reverence. "We harness it to fit into an output we - as humans - can understand. It continues on with or without us."

"If you mean music is in nature, then yes." Light agrees that much is true. "But it's not really music - it's just the result of physics. Music, the music we devote our selves to, is the conscious product of man."

L purses his lips, musing over that peculiar phrase.

"So all other music is a lesser art form?" He curiously asks, something darker creeping into his voice. "You believe you can make such a judgment?"

Now the musician is just shovelling damning words into his mouth.

"I didn't say that." Light grits out, averting his gaze. "I simply meant that there are parameters for music. It's not free or limitless."

"Hm.” Sounding entirely unconvinced, L probes the question subject further in a flattened tone. So the development begins. “Then why do we designate emotions to music, as if it has feelings?"

Honestly, Light is a little stunned to hear such a simple question. He closes his eyes and inhales a deep breath.

"All this is described by humans to replicate human emotion and our _experience_ ,” he begins slowly with a hint of patronisation as if explaining the notes of the piano to a piano scholar. “It's not authentic. Music can't tell you when or _if_ it's sad-"

"-Maybe not in our tongue, but music has its own language.” L interrupts sharply. The conversation modulates to a new key, slightly softer but just as intense. “Your hands spoke it quite fluently. They are the translator-"  

"-It's how the musician plays that _portrays_ the emotion, and therefore music is the platform for humans to mould."

" _Of course_ ," L counters, thumb slipping into the corner of his mouth to mask his frown. He picks the horn back up, tucking it into the same precarious position as if trying to shield it from Light. "You'd want to weaponise it."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Light replies quicker and more forcefully than he intends to.

"You abide by Kira's flawed ideology." The flawed is highly subjective and flawed in itself, Light reasons to himself. Already, he longs to fall back into the dialogue of their instruments. To his relief, although there will most likely be an oncoming recapitulation, L seems to drop the subject and turns his focus back to the rehearsal.

"In this section here," L Lawliet moves from his position at the centre of the room centre stage, not once had he bothered to position himself to communicate, fully expecting to be followed obediently - to hover behind the pianist in a fashion slightly too invasive for Light's liking. Nonetheless, he refuses to give an inch as the world's greatest upcoming musician leans over to prod the manuscript with a finger.

“We can’t be too pressing.”

With a curt nod, Light Yagami decides it’s best to keep his attention focused on the passage at hand, not the _hand_ which is now of all things _pressing_ into his shoulder tightly. Part of him is convinced it’s most definitely a deliberate action to emphasise L’s words. Another is already immersed in carefully reading over the manuscript. Amongst the cascades of notes plummeting down the piano at this moment across these bars of music towards a new phrase, it could be easy to overlook this minute detail and simply charge forwards with ruthless momentum into the next blaring Horn exclamation.

It’s easily done, to release the reigns you hold on the world of sound, and risk a lapse of control. One could plummet so quickly that the next section could heavily be compromised, even. The equilibrium between musician and music lost to misjudgement. Control, even in music, is important; Light Yagami believes this with every fibre of his being. Humans create music, whilst it can transcend it should also remain within the confinements of humans. But it scarcely does. It teeters over the edge into something quite overwhelming. A being in its own right, a master of souls and certainly a separate entity. Nonetheless, he recalls L’s previous words and finds himself fixated on them. Much like his performances, his words seem to draw just as much attention.

“Something wrong, Light?” L asks curiously, tilting his head and Light can feel that intense burning gaze on him.

“No,” Light replies, regaining himself from his thoughts to craft some kind of diversion. “I was thinking to same thing actually. In fact,” he spares a moment to glance over his shoulder at L Lawliet with a small smile, settling into his own lie with comfort. “I’ve played this piece so many times before but nobody else has ever interpreted I this way.”

L narrows his eyes at the words. It’s certainly a good façade, a well conceived one too. But years analysing music has proven people to be far less complex but no less interesting. Much like a musical interpretation, people can be viewed as such also. As he retreats to pick up his instrument, he glances at the skewed reflection of Light Yagami in the polished rose gold brass. His face is jarred, the eyes no longer hazel but darker, lined with heavy bronze.

His French Horn, an instrument of beauty, has never once lied to him. It is ever faithful and honest in its interpretations. In the days when they were just learning to speak as one force, it would not hesitate to reprimand L Lawliet. For being too demanding: an indignant alteration of tuning. For repetitively playing the same harmonics over and over striving for perfection: an insistent prod at sore lips. For pushing through without that extra marked breath he _really should have taken_ : a gasping brassy splutter.

L Lawliet thinks it’s quite fascinating that a human being is incapable of the same sincerity for even a second. He glances over at Light Yagami who is gently tracing melody over the piano keys.

“Whilst many hold in high esteem the desire to remain true to the composer’s intentions, I am a firm believer of individual expression and,” pause, a semibreve at a languid andante. “ _Interpretation._ ”

The word lingers for a moment between them, and Light resorts to actually _pressing_ the piano keys to produce sound now. Interesting. The smooth chordal piano phrase fills the room.

“Even so,” Light begins, flicking the page over and quickly bringing his hand back down to scoop the notes missed in the turn. “I think what you’re suggesting isn’t _too_ drastic either. There’s a subtlety there.”

“I’m glad you’d agree because forgive me if I sound rude,” Light purses his lips tighter at the words, incapable of tearing his gaze away from the manuscript. Funny, L Lawliet didn’t sound apologetic in the slightest. He supposes this is the foreboding recapitulation he hoped to stall.

“All I have heard from you is synthetic, heavily imitative work.”

That seems to be enough to stop the pianist’s fingers in their fluid movements. Abruptly, the room falls into discordant silence. For a moment, it’s uncertain just how or _if_ this weighty suspension can ever resolve.

“Excuse me?” Light snaps before he can help himself, setting his sharpened eyes onto the seemingly unaffected musician. Thumb settled against his lips, L Lawliet gazes vacantly in the spot just above Light’s head, most likely to unnerve him.

“Even slightly mechanical at times,” he continues unfazed. “Playing in such a manner makes that elitist arrogance of yours so misplaced and intriguing-”

“-I’m not arrogant or elitist.”

 _Ah, the rising Crescendo._ Light feels the swell of protest burst against his mouth loudly as he stands, almost knocking the piano stool backwards in the process. Holding up a finger, L Lawliet meets the enraged pianist’s eyes. Or at least he expects to interpret this emotion, but it’s _not quite_ that at all. Light curses himself at how he complies with L’s gesture and stops talking immediately.

“Last year, I recall an interview you did with Yotsuba Press,” tapping his chin, L’s eyes glint with something dangerous. “you likened yourself to - and I’m fairly certain _this is a direct quote -_ the Liszt of the new world.”

Well. It sounded nothing short of ridiculous when spoken in such a droning, unconvincing manner.

“I’m just a musician with high aspirations and see no issue with that.” Light smoothly recovers part of his calm façade, walking out from behind the piano to face L openly. Folding his arms over his chest, his tone turns accusatory.

“Besides, I’m pretty sure _you_ called yourself the sole pioneer of musical rendering or something just as pretentious.”

“There’s really no need to get so defensive,” L reasons in the epitome of well-constructed surprise.

Every expression on L Lawliet’s face is premeditated, like the compositional work of a studious musician. The tempo shift of his blinking eyes – now slow as if to gesture impassiveness - the melody etched into every slight inflection of his voice, the harmonic shifts around his mouth. That’s the ultimate flaw in his design, Light realises then with dark amusement. This musician had devoted not just his life to music but his very persona. He had built his very self around music, _as_ music. Therefore, it’s only logical to assume that if you knew where to look, you could study the score of L Lawliet much like you could take a manuscript from the library and scribble over it with pencil annotations.

Just because Light Yagami couldn’t read it _now_ didn’t mean it would remain impossible. Determination nestles in Light’s eyes at such a thought. To read L Lawliet so easily, to study his composition and to unravel it all… The slight smirk loosens into an undignified when the musician in question continues to speak – the grand _finale_ of his verbal assault.

“I’m merely proposing that you should re-evaluate your sound. You are clearly capable of your own musical expression.”

_Bastard._

“I’m doing you the favour here.” Light grits outs, shoving the manuscript into his rucksack hastily. Swinging the bag over his shoulder, he casts a resigned look over to the door. He hates how that word swallows him: re-evaluate. It takes Light Yagami back to the days of eagerly practicing the piano everyday at a set time in hope of his father listening.

“I took the time and expenses to travel here to rehearse with you. But if you’re going to just insult me, then you should _re-evaluate_ -”

L’s wide eyes brighten at the choice of words, evidently used to express disapproval.

“-Perhaps I am the one lacking in expression.”

Raising his eyebrows, Light lowers his hand from opening the door. An apology?

“I merely meant that I believe together, should you resolve this issue,” That merits an eye roll as Light opens the door. _Not_ an apology, then. The next words falter his actions once more.

“We may achieve something very powerful indeed.”

A test, a challenge. Light hears it, yet he still drinks in the words. Blinking rapidly in hope to disguise the hope that can barely contain itself, the pianist glances over his shoulder at L. The musician is tending to his instrument, polishing the body attentively. His dark hair conveniently hides his eyes. This truly is an unexpected Coda, different in tone to all the preceding material. Though Light grapples for a Da Capo, because _anywhere_ is better than being stranded here with words drenched in such promise, he fails to move. Caught in a stasis all too intense.

It’s the first time anyone has used this word to describe his musicianship. _Brilliant,_ yes. Incredible, always. Virtuosic is common too. But _powerful –_ never. Despite the barrage of displeasing words that came before, Light claws desperately to pluck the word from memory and keep it fresh. Yes, that’s what he’s always wanted. Of course, to be powerful. The thought is exhilarating; to have people bending to his will, to torture their senses with his music.

 _You’d try to weaponise it._ L’s right about that. Music is a weapon in some ways. A beautiful power that _can be wielded_. To bring an audience to tears and offer a moment’s respite only to snatch it back and plunge ruthlessly back into a whole new realm. It’s all in his hands, in his control. Powerful.

L Lawliet has found the perfect word to lure him in and that irritates Light Yagami more than he can say. Scowling, Light turns away from the musician who at some stage brought their focus back to him.

“Whatever, I need a break.”

“We’ll continue at 2pm, then.” L drawls, undoubtedly preparing to practice until the allotted time.

“We’ll continue _tomorrow,”_ Light corrects without hesitation. “I’m going home.”

By the time the words are uttered, they’re already drowned out by the familiar _powerful_ tone of the French Horn. Light’s fingers twitch as he walks away, aching for a musical canvas. Somehow, he _knows_ that despite L facing the wall, that he sees. And, Light clenches his fists to steady his fingers, that’s the problem.

L Lawliet already sees far more than anyone else. He sees far too much. 

The French horn ebbs into the nothing more than memory - which will undoubtedly haunt him with its sheer conviction - as Light strides down the practice room corridor of Wammy's Conservatory. Just as expected, L Lawliet has his own private room, headed deliberately at the top of the corridor. Light had been so preoccupied with the outcome of the rehearsal that he missed the obnoxiously large 'L' printed on the door. He rolls his eyes, of course Wammy’s very own prodigy would be granted the finest and best facilities.

As he passes the smaller practice rooms, sounds of ambitious students billow out into the hallway; a violinist tackles a challenging corner of Stravinsky with fierce determination and little patience. The result is hardly satisfactory, but repeated incessantly. In another room, a trumpeter splutters clumsily over a series of harmonics. A flautist meanders gracefully through a technical study: _17 Grands Exercises Journaliers de Macanisme_ , Taffanel and Gaubert. It’s recognisable, an exercise he has heard his father - professional concert flautist extraordinaire - employ into his own practice regime very often.

His pace slows as he hears a piano. Curiously, he closes in on the door and listens. Even subconsciously, everyone to some extent listens out for their own instrument, for the potential competition. What he hears surprises Light. It's not classical playing, or contemporary. It's a sub genre of jazz. Although Light is unfamiliar with this style, Ryuk has introduced him to the general 'canon' through his own renditions ("Hey Light! You play me some Rachmaninoff, I'll play you some Thelonious Monk."). This piece doesn't seem to fit. Maybe it's an original. That interests Light further. He admires the skill of composers, how they are able to create their own music and bravely expose it to the world.

Light doesn't realise the piano has stopped until the door swings open.

"It's rude to eavesdrop, you know." The stranger says, leaning against the doorframe with his limbs draping loosely by his side.

By this point, it's too late to resume walking without it being a brisk walk of shame. His pride just cannot allow such a thing. Instead, a little sheepish, he studies the pianist who bears remarkable semblance to L Lawliet. Despite the darker skin and favouring of black jeans and shirt, Light's certain he could be a homage or a pastiche. His poor posture is grossly exaggerated, sharp eyes wide with an intense stare.

"I'm rude by nature," the stranger sounds _immensely_ proud of that. "So there's no need to look so apologetic. I know you're not Yagami."

At this stage Light half-expects to discover fliers of his face plastered across this institution. His father is an accomplished musician and often is followed by enquiring press, but Light has yet to have a single article including his photograph. He's fortunate enough to have had that extremely complimentary column written by the enthusiastic journalist Touta Matsuda in the NPA monthly journal. Perhaps the conservatory doesn't get that many guests.

"I was just wondering what you were playing." Light admits, peering into the room to confirm his suspicions, no manuscript. An original composition by - he catches a name scribbled hastily over a textbook on the floor - Beyond Birthday. Lips twitching, he attempts to school his expression into one of inquisitiveness.

"I was jamming," Beyond opens the door further as if inviting him into his own private office.

Poorly masking his surprise, Light steps into the tiny room fit for just one, and nods absently. Improvising is something he has never felt at ease with. Though many argue it is live composition, in which the performer uses material logged in their musical vocabulary to form their music, Light has failed at the task several times. He's tried sitting at the piano and letting his fingers run free, but it simply leads to a memorised concerto as opposed to anything organic. This is part of the reason why he believes so adamantly that music is created, not a pre-existent form. If it were, then surely he would be able to sit and speak so openly with it in such a way.

Ryuk is the kind of pianist who can sit at a piano and just play whatever the hell he wants to without inhibitions. Mistakes turn into dissonances, spontaneity an advantage providing rewarding results. In contrast, when Light sits at the piano, he plans. He plans meticulously and the music rewards him in a different way.

"I love a good jam." If he isn't already convinced that Beyond Birthday is playing some kind of practical joke on him, the moment he pulls out a jar of strawberry jam from his backpack Light is sure. Narrowing his eyes, Light watches as the musician crawls across the floor to slump unceremoniously by the piano stool.

"So you're actually doing it then, you're playing for _the L_?" He dips his fingers into the jar, coating them in the jam. There’s something terribly mocking and heavy in his words which cannot be placed.

"Yes, I'm playing _with_ L." Light corrects subtly.

Catching the amendment, Beyond laughs a little manically. It's truly better than he could have ever hoped for. The reputation certainly doesn't precede the pianist; he is a perfect clashing force for L Lawliet.

"How was it?" Beyond asks casually between slurps of jam.

Light remains quiet and that’s indication enough. _Oh yes,_ this is the best idea he's had for a long time. Whilst it would be entertaining to take credit now and own up, Beyond licks the jam off his fingers instead. Unnerving the far too stoic pianist is much more fun. Light purses his lips, staring at the wall with as if it harboured an ancient unseen manuscript from Bach himself. Unfortunately, it doesn’t and there’s only so long one can stare at a single block colour.

"That bad, huh?

"Do you even care?" Light retorts irritably, letting the tension ooze from him for the first time today. Raising his eyebrows, Beyond smirks widely at the musician. He gets to his feet, a thumb smeared with jam touches his lips.

"I care both very much and very little."

It's more difficult to avoid something when that avoidance is deliberate. Light finds his gaze trilling between the jam and the musician who he really hopes isn't going to touch the piano after all this. A French Horn resonates from his pocket. Momentarily bewildered, as if half-expecting to find a minature L Lawliet – given the latest series of bizarre events it wouldn’t surprise him, Light pulls his phone out to reveal Misa Amane’s name flashing across the screen. _Saved at last._  

"...I have to go now." He manages weakly, retreating towards the door. Gesturing to his escape – the phone buzzing in his palm - Light musters a strained smile. "It was nice to meet you-"

Tilting his head exaggeratedly, Beyond blinks.

"- _was_ it?"

The thumb pops out of Beyond's mouth, and he outstretches the hand previously covered in sticky sweet jam. Light stares at it in horror, even more so when his own hand instinctively conforms to doing the polite thing and shaking it. When Beyond swipes the damp thumb over his skin, Light retracts quickly and practically darts out the door. When Beyond pokes his head door, he spots the pianist walking briskly, wiping his hand excessively on his khakis. He grins in delight.

"Was that really necessary?" A voice behind him asks. Beyond stiffens, fingers clasping the door a little tighter. The absence of the French Horn wafting through the corridor confirms it.

"Lawliet, you're gracing us _mere mortals_ with your presence?" He bows his head a little mockingly in the direction of the musician he's yet to look at. Bitterly, he shovels another lump of jam into his mouth, hoping it will sweeten his mood.

Ignoring the abrasive statement, L Lawliet muses over the exchanged he heard.

"Light did not enjoy our rehearsal."

Beyond doesn't need to glance over his shoulder to know there’s a small ridiculous pout to accompany the sulking tone. He does anyway, and immediately regrets it because he cannot turn away.

"Nobody _enjoys_ rehearsals with you." He quips in dark amusement, an edge still lacing his voice. Recalling their years of collaboration, Beyond scrunches his face. Your self-esteem and confidence drops by roughly 70% after a rehearsal with L. It's hardly a riveting experience. It's hardly a surprise he's gone through such an extensive list of pianists either, some extremely renowned and respected.

"But he's going to come back." Beyond admits aloud curiously. "That's a start I'd say."

Humming in agreement L nods weakly, mind clearly elsewhere. Once upon a time, Beyond would have fought to claim his attention. Now, he watches with a different agenda. It's not what's holding L's focus that's so interesting - the practice room timetable - it's _who._ His eyes aren't even reading the timetable he's so forlornly staring at.

"He's _good_ , then?" Beyond dares to probe, barely able to speak through a stifled laugh.

"He's quite extraordinary." L gnaws the skin of his thumb.  A pang of something unacceptable ruptures inside Beyond at the statement. _Extraordinary,_ after just one meeting. Poignantly, he smiles to himself. It’s a good thing he no longer wishes to be extraordinary.

"No, he's perfect." L corrects after a moment. But the usual positive connotations with that word are wiped away with the intense, troubled silence. "Too perfect." Beyond swallows uncomfortably, jaw tightening. Too refined, too set in his own chains. Too-

"So." Beyond interrupts, swinging the jam jar in his palm to try and replicate some air of nonchalance, which is painfully slipping further from him. He knows he _really_ shouldn’t for his own sake, but the question slips out. “How are your three little protégés?"

"Not mine." 

"Nothing ever is," Beyond scoffs. "Yet everything under the sun tries to impress you."

"Not everything." L then has the audacity to stare at him blankly as if to use _him_ as a prime example. Oh, Beyond despises how this time he doesn't want to point out how wrong L Lawliet is. The bastard's rarely wrong.

"That's right." He lies smoothly. If he can't capture L Lawliet with anything else, perhaps the magnitude and conviction of his response will at least catch him off guard. "I haven't played a French Horn in four years.” Lie, lie, lie. “I never will again." _Bloody hell,_ he's trying to impress him still.

But L, the original score placed so high above the pastiche, isn't listening. He isn't even by his side anymore, forever evading his reach in every way.

As Light Yagami answers the call from Misa Amane, greeted by three simultaneous rounds of twenty questions, he exits the prestigious building that is Wammy's Conservatoire. It's only after boarding the train, reluctantly listening to Misa's enthusiastic retelling of her day, that he realises _what_ was amiss with the situation. His ringtone, it’s a French Horn. Not just any French Horn. The ringtone, as in _his ringtone,_ was set to L Lawliet's latest concert series. Gritting his teeth, a wave of embarrassment consumes him. Undoubtedly, L was somehow going to hear about this.

"Misa," he chokes out. "I'll call you back." Swiftly, he ends the call during her excessively long goodbye. He scrolls through his contacts to the one person who had to be responsible for such a stunt. With two rings, the call is declined and sent to voicemail.

"Ryuk." Light punctuates the name after the generic voicemail machine. He'd been saving this for a better occasion, but right now it suited his main agenda. "They're discontinuing the apple flavoured poptarts. I know they're your favourite as well, _it's such a shame_."

As he hangs up, embracing his inevitable plight to hell, he smirks. Moments later he receives a text message. Rather than the frantic despairing response from Ryuk, an unregistered number appears in his inbox.

Moments later, another message arrives.

Attached, rather presumptuously, is an audio file.


	3. tacet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, I'm so sorry about that. I am really excited to be updating :D this story is so fun to write and I'm enjoying it so much. I have said a few thank yous on tumblr but I need to say a big thank you to Othila & Em for so much encouragement on this chapter, and for reading so much of my spam and drafts - it means a lot. Hope you enjoy!!
> 
> MUSIC FOR THE CHAPTER- 
> 
> Diegetic:
> 
> Piano Sonata Op. 11 - Mozart (III. Rondo Alla Turca most notably / Light; not strictly diegetic but a key piece to this chapter)  
> The Planets Op. 32: I. Mars, IV. Jupiter, VI. Uranus - Gustav Holst (Bernstein + New York Philharmonic)  
> Song to the Moon - Antonin Dvořák (Misa Amane's recital - she would be singing with the piano reduction of the orchestral score)
> 
> Non-Diegetic (long list this chapter!):
> 
> Cello Suite No. 5 in C Minor BWV 1011: Gavotte - JS Bach (Yo-Yo Ma)  
> Arcadia - The Kite String Tangle  
> Cheating On Me - Kwabs (Beyond, oh Beyond…)  
> Fate - Ofei  
> Carmina Burana: IV. "Omina Sol Temperat" - Carl Orff (London Symphony Orchestra)  
> Muerte Del Angel - Astor Piazzolla (Beyond + Piazzolla is so important, I'm gonna write a whole thing about this soon stay tuned)  
> Tango Ballet: II. Encuentro, III. Cabaret (Quatour Arranoa - Astor Piazolla)  
> String Quartet No. 8 In C Minor Op. 110: II. Allergo - Dimitri Shostakovich (okay this is probably my favourite Shost quartet. I have the Brodsky Quartet recordings which are incredible but honestly for this I took a listen to the Quatour Debussy Quartet and wow. I love their interpretation it packs such a punch. It's much faster than Brodsky's version. Anyway for this chapter, this recording is the one I used to write Beyond in the final scene.)  
> Piano Concerto No. 1 for Piano, Trumpet & Strings Op. 35 I. Allegretto - Dimitri Shostakovich (mmmmMMMMMmmm that opening theme is so dark and brooding yeah)  
> Tannhäuser: Overtüre - Wagner (Berliner Philharmoniker)

As Misa Amane finishes her final note, Light Yagami is further convinced that hearing a piece of music live outshines any recording. Most call it performance, but that's not it at all. That's being far too conservative. It's  _persuasion_. It is not the music as a solitary force that achieves this by itself. If that were the case, then his father's career amongst countless other professional musicians would become reliant on sitting in recording studios as opposed to concert halls. The act of performance is musical seduction. Coaxing a person's entire being into a position where they are vulnerable enough to allow music to affect them so openly. Stripping them of their inhibitions slowly, peeling the layers away, teasing them towards the climax before ebbing away completely.  

Misa is a prime example of how effective a tool music is. She embodies this persuasion so naturally. Her arms spinning silk as they weave through the air to add movement to the scene, her eyes hypnotically churning the undulating phrases of a song - usually opting for blue contacts - and her  _voice._  When she sings, she's transformed into an enchantress with the ability to lure everyone into her story. Light often finds himself leaning ever so slightly forwards during her recitals, fully engaged in her delivery. Today is no different. As the applause resounds through the room, he leans back slowly and joins them. 

"I haven't heard that song before." Takada admits to his right, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. 

Although it would be customary to respond, or provide the information he has on the piece (an Aria from Antonín Dvořák's opera  _Rusalka -_  also a poor attempt at a private joke between friends which Light refuses to indulge) he simply nods curtly. Once again, the blonde soprano has drawn him into a world which exhibits perfectly the sheer force of music when deployed in the right way. His palms tingle with anticipation. That world can be created by his hands  _in his hands,_ yes. It will be.

If Misa is persuasion, then Lawliet is performance. Not the aforementioned kind. The kind of performance thousands would flock to for the sake of the name printed on the ticket. Regardless of the concert programme, regardless of his bizarre quirks which Light has failed to categorise. He's a series of false relations splattered across an extensive manuscript. Convincing, compelling, and cunning. Light is  _precision -_ a potent blend of both these traits orchestrated flawlessly. 

"It's Dvořák's  _Song to the Moon_ ," a voice smoothly remarks from behind them, an unwelcome caesura to Light's thoughts. He stiffens at  _that voice_  which shouldn't be here, belonging to  _that person_  who shouldn't be here who has rather rudely poked his face in the gap between his and Takada's shoulders. Lawliet offers him a brief glance, completely unfazed, before turning to Takada and continuing as if this is his very own  _raison d'être_. 

"This aria takes place in the opera  _Rusalka_ , telling the story of a water-goblin in love with a human.  _Rusalka_  places her trust in the moon, confiding everything in her soul to it." Light knows it's no co-incidence L chooses this moment to meet his eyes. "She asks if the moon can find her love and convey to him how she feels. Her love being a human prince."

"Oh." Takada breathes, walking out of the recital room with poise - a stark contrast against the hunched figure trailing slightly behind. "How sad." 

"Indeed." L's voice is a contradiction, devoid of any emotion whatsoever. "You see,  _Rusalka_  implores Ježibaba for assistance to help her become human to seek out her love. There is, of course, a condition - that she will lose the power of speech. And so  _Rusalka-_ " 

"-If you know Andersen's  _The Little Mermaid_  Takada," Light interjects, pressing his fingers into the bride of his nose. "It's a variant of that."

Tapping his chin thoughtfully, Lawliet gazes up at the ceiling as if seeking inspiration from the very spirit of Bach himself or something just as ridiculous. 

"Hm, I suppose you could say that." pause. Of course this isn't the end of his irritating melody - no,  _drone_  - because acknowledging someone else has a point clearly is too much for the world's  _greatest_  upcoming musician. "But it's a little different."  

Brisk allegro shifts towards an agitato. Crossing his arms, Light sighs. 

"Hence why I said  _variant._ " 

Takada glances between them, poorly concealing her surprise at the strained exchange. Lawliet delights in that, lips twitching. So he has clearly begun to unravel the carefully packaged demeanour of Light Yagami, then. Open the case, as it were. The case which holds the instrument. Yes, people work more like instruments than they ever can do as genuine, sentient beings. They are built up of mechanisms, a collation of many intricate parts working together in order to create the whole. Instruments are vessels, in which music can meander inside and possess.

But in the world where humans are synonymous with snakes, they meander far better into the instrument. Perhaps infiltrating the heart, clawing the head, suffocating the lungs. Much like an instrument can be played, Lawliet muses that people can be too. Analysis is never as entertaining without applying the methodology and theoretical aspects into practice.

Setting the bow against the heartstrings, third position on the circumflex coronary artery works best, induces weeping. Shift to second position on the Aorta and you have sobbing. In comparison, plucking sharply at the frontal lobe of the brain produces the most wonderful indecision. And sustaining a tremolo across the entorhinal cortex conjures up sporadic, fiery bursts behind the eyes. Needless to say that slamming the lungs down, a pedal beneath scruffy shoes, creates breathlessness. These observations amongst hundreds more prove that the human body is remarkably responsive to subtle manipulations.  

He discovered when he was eight, at a music summer school in Berlin, that a majority of these instruments were dull and uninteresting. Some were heavily predictable chord progressions with no sense of organic composition. Then there were those who wavered meekly from tonic to dominant, uncertain and unsure of where to place themselves. Others were the kind of instruments whose vibrato quivered in the face of opportunity. Thus, the cases closed. Cases continued closing; few were left open. 

Light Yagami, on the other hand, has barely been unhinged. Peering inside this case is imperative, especially when truly assessing their musical compatibility. His intuition is never wrong, and it tells him there's something too interesting to leave alone concerning a person who builds his walls out of pianos and papermâché masks from pristine scores. It also says in a hushed tone that one peek behind the musical façade isn't going to be enough. This is a far more extensive project, a specialism in itself. 

"Well I should be going," Takada starts, pulling her coat over her shoulders. "it was nice to meet you…" she trails off, realising that there's been no introduction to this curious eccentric character. 

"Ryuzaki." L supplies a little dismissively, thumb grazing his teeth. Another case closed. 

The corners of Light's lips ascend like a rapid arpeggio, he offers it to Takada as she escorts herself from their presence. Her steps are a fraction quicker than usual, bordering allegro. The heels clicking sharply against the floor serve as a metronome. Eternalising the pulse as it ebbs away, Light starts a whole new piece. The peculiar and  _unnecessary_  alias L has used spirals around his mind, the newfound leitmotif. 

"What are you doing here,  _Ryuzaki_?" his words hold the decorum of a seventeenth century Gavotte, all for the sake of delicate propriety and customaries. 

Considering the musician vowed once on national television to never set foot inside the 'megalomaniac establishment built upon the richest deposits of narcissism', L Lawliet must have ulterior motives to this sudden appearance at the  _Kira Academy_. Despite her renowned talents, Light doubts it is as transparent as a desire to watch Misa Amane sing. There's something a little unsettling in those eyes, and like yesterday Light feels L has gravely overstepped.

He's selfishly imprinted himself in the peripheral, slightly out of focus and hazy like a mirage. But elusive and engaging enough to prick persistently at the eyes until they're sore. He's woven the seams of his music-making into open ears, a constant loop which lacks the clarity Light begins to crave. 

Their first rehearsal continues to haunt the practice rooms he frequents. Even Mozart's iconic Piano Sonata Op. 11 begins to sound empty without the  _unnecessary_  presence of a French Horn. As Light had moved into the bright second theme, his frustration manifested through heavily accenting the first and third beats of every bar. Such an atrocity - L Lawliet claiming ownership over a work not even for his own instrument, over something that had always belonged to him - could not be forgiven.

There's a vast difference between pleasing a father and making him proud. Pleasing is easy. Pleasing is holding the top score in every class for the entire year and continuing to do so. Pleasing is excelling not only in studies but in recreational activities, becoming junior tennis champion. Pleasing is practicing his scales and technical excercises a minimum of three hours a day, often scheduling this time to match exactly when his father was due home from a concert or rehearsal. 

Mastering Mozart's Piano Sonata Op. 11 at age twelve and winning the Wolfgang prize in the international youth piano festival had been far more than simply pleasing. Soichiro had barely looked at the award in his hands, fleetingly stroking his hair and saying four words: I'm proud of you. But then prizes become the norm, a novelty for his blossoming musicianship. Light Yagami's brilliance becomes his biggest drawback. He sets his own expectations and nobody questions it. Last year, he was the first international student to be offered the prestigious Rach-Doué scholarship and one-to-one tutuiton with one of the greatest pianists in the world. 

And those words -  _I'm proud of you -_ continue to remain a memory, just as he continues please. Light pretends not to wonder what it will take to hear those words again.

He doesn't remember closing his eyes, but when he opens them Lawliet's intrigued expression indicates it's been far too long. The fact the musician said nothing to rouse him from the lengthy stupor is perhaps the bigger issue, however. Because this is no longer a Gavotte. Decorum is delicate, it can be set off balance by the slightest changes in nuances. L has tossed propriety and social customs out the nearest window by doing  _absolutely nothing_ , that's certainly enough to propel them into the realm of avant-garde.  

"Are you okay, Light?" L finally asks, ten minutes behind conformity's schedule yet arguably fashionably late. 

"What are you doing here?" He ignores the insincere question, exasperation clogging up the syllables. L Lawliet isn't as concerned as his frown and narrowed eyes suggest. After all, he's  _performance._ He's tweaked these expressions and practiced them in the same way he would practice harmonics on the French Horn or revise his repertory. Maybe he even does it simultaneously; Light recalls the slim mirror in the rehearsal room at Wammy's Conservatoire. He imagines the musician stretching his lips into a rare unnatural smile, choking it against the Horn. 

"Answering with a question is very telling, Light."

_Oh!_  But that response in itself is ever more telling. Light holds back the bark of satisfying laughter bubbling in his chest. Whilst he's only started scribbling his analysis in the margins of Lawliet's skin, he can already start to interpret what's before him. Besides, interpretation is one of the most utilised tools in musicology. The skills are transferrable to human beings more than one would think. To interpret is to not just to scrutinise and understand, but to mould and reform. Thus far, Light interprets L Lawliet's perception on life. Music is not an interlude between life - it's reversed. Life is an interlude to music. Interlude is not quite the appropriate word though, because nothing about Lawliet is real when he's speaking. He's sure of that because the latest York-Bowen recordings on his iPod capture fragments of  _life_ , not just performance. 

Light turns to address the musician once more, faltering when his shadow jumps off the ground and immediately cuts in. Or at least, the best imitation of L Lawliet he's ever seen: Beyond Birthday. 

"Am I interrupting something?" the pastiche practically  _coos_  unapologetically, stamping over the final shreds of decorum Light has attempted to salvage. Between the two of them, the Gavotte has been thoroughly eradicated. 

"Neither of you have spoken for the past…" Beyond looks down at his watch-less wrist, and clicks his tongue several times to fill in the absence of ticking. "two minutes, so I just assumed not." 

"What are you doing here?" L asks, seeming  _genuinely_  surprised. Light is so relieved he does not have to repeat the question for  _the third time_ and run the risk of sounding like a broken record player that he almost misses that detail. 

Stumbling across Light Yagami here today was guaranteed, Beyond muses. However, he had never expected  _L_  to be so delightfully predictable. Delightful because it's been less than twenty-four hours since he met the pianist, and already he's charting that unknown territory he himself deemed was forbidden. All for the sake of seeking him out. Better yet, their next rehearsal is not scheduled for another two hours. It's the first time Beyond has ever known L to show this much interest in a pianist. The uncensored version is both amusing and vexing: it's the first time L has shown this much interest in  _another person._ There's a sour taste in his mouth, Beyond fails to dispel it even with a few generous sips of water. His hands  _tremble_  as he brings the bottle to his lips and that just won't do.

"Impromptu jam with a rather talented individual," Beyond quickly gestures behind him to Ryuk, hoping the action will mask his body's betrayal. 

Light follows the fingers curiously, spotting his friend engaged in conversation with another art student in the hallway, Rem he thinks. There's a canvas under Ryuk's arm, laden with bright jarring colours and patterns of acrylic. Some of the paint has smudged against his palms but he doesn't seem to care. Light feels compelled to point it out, knowing full well Ryuk would subject a piano to similar treatment, potentially encouraged by Beyond to do so. He's reminded of the jam incident yesterday, and shudders in a way he hopes coincides with the opening of the hallway door which lets in the crisp breeze from outside. 

The clenching of Light's jaw, tightened pegs refining his usually impeccable tuning, suggests that the sourness may well be contagious. He's a little green even, a deeper shade than the one smeared across Ryuk's hands. It's a welcoming distraction from everything Beyond refuses to acknowledge in this moment. And because tormenting Light Yagami was such an enjoyable experience before, there's no way he can pass up such an opportunity again. Particularly when the pianist lies at the crux of all his current problems. Therefore, Beyond reasons that he kind of deserves it. 

"He's allowed to have other friends, Yagami." At this, Beyond watches as his target's eye twitches slightly. It's the only indicator his words have even registered. 

"I didn't know you two knew each other." Light smoothly deflects the accusation, smiling politely with teeth and all. The smorzando of emotion is all too convincing. And yes, now Beyond is beginning to see more and more what is so inviting about this little musical paradox. A work of neat contradictions and calculated techniques, bound to share the secrets of its composition under the right pressure. No  _wonder_ Lawliet is so captivated. 

"I heard the  _Shinigami Six_  at Ronnie Scott's last week," he says off-handedly instead of further probing, because Lawliet's eyes are too attentively scouring every inch of the pianist's face. It's distracting and sickeningly obscene to watch. If Light Yagami were to meet that gaze, he's certain he would be alarmed by the brazen intensity. So Beyond resorts to drastic measures, his destructive segno which is ever rooted in capturing back Lawliet's attention.

"We exchanged numbers and talked Miles Davis over dinner." Casual takeout last Thursday with the whole of the Jazz sextet which make up the  _Shinigami Six_ , but Beyond chooses to omit that detail for the sake of the aforementioned segno, and he's fully aware how pathetic that is. Already his chest is tighter, but Lawliet finally tears his dark brooding eyes from Light to look at him. Evidently, persistence concealed as nonchalance is effective. 

"You went  _for dinner_?" Better than expected, he has L speaking  _pointicello._  For a moment, Beyond has successfully coaxed the musician into his tune. This is it, his cadenza. Time to deploy absolutely everything he has. Poor taste to disclose all your well-crafted solos, perhaps yes. But arguably not if the chances to do so are so rare. Shrugging, he drags a thumb across his mouth a fraction before L does. In response, Lawliet blinks and quickly removes his hand from his face. And that's brilliant. It's all brilliant. At least it is until Schubert's  _Unfinished Symphony,_  theenigma itself, opens its mouth and the cadenza is broken. Cue the unwelcome tutti.  

"I was at that concert." Light admits, although his words are stiff and uncomfortable. 

Concert - Beyond suppresses an eye roll and indignant snort at the word. It was definitely a gig, not a concert. The semantic choice further exposes how alien he is. Light doesn't have an ounce of jazz in his blood, Beyond smirks at the thought of him attending such an event. His smirk frays at the edges, the string of muscle no longer tight, when he realises Lawliet's reverted back to fixating solely on his new precious pianist. Lawliet notices the clear distance in Light's voice, being unable to deduce exactly why is frustrating. It's something worth further investigation. Music has given him an opportunity to do just that in conjunction with the source.

"I've never heard the  _Shinigami Six_ , in truth." Beyond thinks that's one of the most purposefully leading statements L Lawliet has ever uttered. It's all wrong and out place because in the seven years he's known the musician, L has never bothered to listen to or appreciate other budding musicians of his time, least of all in such an informal setting. Light senses the shift too, and has every intention of playing up to this private game, mastering it as he does with everything else. 

"They're playing again this week at  _Servant Jazz Quarters_." He decides tactfully, affirming the unspoken question. And then, nudging his elbow almost imperceptibly against Lawliet's arm, he continues with his melodious onslaught. Trickling honey, oozing with warmth; it almost creates the illusion of singing. "You ought to go." 

"Perhaps I will." A confirmation, then. Beyond crushes a resigned sigh with his teeth, failing to understand how the situation has spiralled so dangerously out of his control. Music seldom turns on you this way. People, on the other hand...  _well._

"Did you know," he gazes between the pair, a jarring crimson gleam in his eyes as Ryuk approaches them. Light wonders why the sudden change in his disposition, but he supposes even scherzos aren't always a complete comedic farce. They can be laden with sheer tumultuous force. " _Rusalka_  was warned that a betrayal from the prince would damn them both for all eternity, yet she unconditionally took Ježibaba's offer in order to meet the man. Taking into account the heavy foreshadowing, that's a little foolish, isn't it?" 

His voice is unnerving, the words revealing just how long this shadow has actually lingered in their presence. 

"I highly doubt  _Rusalka_  was aware of literary devices governing her fate." L deadpans haphazardly, tugging at the sleeve of Light's jumper absently. "Now if you excuse us, we'll both be going now." Once again, he is audacious enough to make huge assumptions: that Light  _would_  be leaving with him to wherever he is planning to go. 

"Měsíčku, nezhasni,  _nezhasni!_  " Beyond recites to Light's retreating back. Ryuk cackles beside him, arriving late enough to _just_  miss the bite sinking into every syllable.  

Gold, ruby and bronzed leaves pool around feet, silence elapses for the whole duration of their walk. Then the colours shift into softer tones. Pale yellow walls with minimal decor greet him as he steps inside out of the Autumn chill. The coffee shop is familiar to Light. In fact, it's a place of frequent refuge on campus. Sliding into the corner, shielded by decorative foliage and the steeping arcs of the booths, one could be guaranteed a few hours uninterrupted. It's here where Light can flick through a score or graze over the manuscript reverently. Studying music is the library is a tedious setting in comparison. That's not to say music roams so freely wherever it wants to, though. No. Music is confined by the parameters he sets it. That's how it ought to be. He's almost  _roaming freely_  himself, towards his usual spot, until he remembers that he's not alone. 

Once again, Lawliet is bulldozing through all of his solitary retreats. Although it's impossible for him to know that, Light doesn't doubt he is fully aware of what he's doing. He's  _certain_  when L leads him directly to the booth in the corner which may as well have his name printed across the table. Honestly, the trombone entrance in Beethoven's Symphony No. 5 in C minor Op. 67 has more subtlety than this. Lawliet isn't a trombonist, though. He adorns a French Horn, a creature of pride and self-indulgence. An instrument able to hold complete dominance over the orchestra with moments that render other solos to pitiful murmurs, punching through the texture resolutely. 

Light remains still, eyes following the musician who perches in  _his_  usualseat. Not only does he have to share this space, he has to sacrifice his comfort too. And to someone who is incapable of sitting  _properly,_  it seems. As he moves to sit opposite L reluctantly, an accusation builds in his throat. Sensing the thick tension, L waits for him to speak. Light has failed to demonstrate anything remotely sincere in this second meeting, much like the first. That was to be expected. Yet music is underpinned by sincerity, raw blinding truth. The emotional input from a human being is the energy music feasts upon to be sentient itself. Without that, it's merely dulled magic, dwindling sparks. L wants nothing more than to hear it, Light's sincerity, even just a whisper. A whisper may be enough to change everything, even to cease the tolling bells. 

They order drinks which swiftly arrive at the table. Still, neither are willing to make the first move to divulge in conversation. Light _finally_ swallows the accusation, washing it down with a mouthful of coffee, because an accusation of  _what exactly_  - intuition on Lawliet's part to choose the most secluded booth? It can't so easily be put into words, but it's  _there._  The best depiction of it is a salacious Sarabande; so much for the mediating Gavotte. 

“Our first rehearsal was somewhat of an audition." L declares, the antecedent phrase of their first theme. "I had to test you.”

Light feels almost obliged to point out he had also been running tests of his own, the anticipated consequent phrase, until he spots the avid look in Lawliet's eyes.  Refusing to give him the satisfaction of pandering to his predictions -  _mechanical and synthetic -_ Light takes the baton and conducts the next passage.

“What’s this then," He asks a little flippantly. "the  _callback?”_

Light realises then, that yes. That's  _exactly_ what this is. They were scheduled to rehearse again today, yet there is no French Horn in sight. This is another test, everything he does without music is an immediate reflection on his musicianship. And that's hardly reasonable. Music is pivotal to him, granted. But it does not consume him. Besides, people can be scarcely different in the height of a concert. Music is a vessel, after all. A means of channeling actions and perceptions into a force which can erode most qualms. It's logical to suggest, then, that music can erode other things.  Holding up a finger and wagging it in that unbearably patronising manner, L reaches for the pot of sugar cubes at the middle of the table.

“Tacet.” He says, as if that explains everything. It doesn’t. Raising an eyebrow, Light waits impatiently for the musician to elaborate. He’s half-expecting at this point for Lawliet to pretentiously recite the definition of the musical term to him. He doesn't.

“There are some things we need to sort out. F rom all we discussed yesterday, I can understand why Music doesn't trust you.” L remarks, hand flamboyantly tossing sugar cubes into his tea in the same manner Sir Simon Rattle would conduct a grand sweeping symphony. The baton now in his agile hands, it seems. “You don't even trust yourself."

Light presses into the table as if it’s a piano. A dominant seventh, holding the regal and proud fullness of F major, is splayed beneath his burning fingers. L blinks in brief surprise then, as if somehow he hears exactly what Light Yagami is playing between the hushed voices in the coffee shop and the clattering percussion of a bustling kitchen. He’s not even looking down at the table, but his eyes are laced with comprehension. And it’s too much, too intrusive.

Immediately, Light retracts his hands from the table, instead carving chords into his thighs. The momentum of it wills him to speak.

“I think this has nothing to do with music, the truth is that  _you_  don’t trust me.”

“This has everything to do with music.” L snaps sharply, modulating a few pitches. And then softer in a rehearsed pianissimo:  _I’d like to trust you._

Light laughs in disbelief.

“All you have to do is ask nicely.” And for a second, even he is duped into believing this beautiful resonant lie comprised of a perfect fifth. L diminishes it instantly, revelling in the dissonance. 

"Tell me Light, what does your father make of your music?" L takes a sip of his tea casually, as if that disguises the sheer gravity of the question.

Light clenches his fists beneath the table tightly. Mozart's Piano Sonata Op. 11 is a burning itch he can't bring himself to scratch. If he does, his composure will surely be compromised. Perhaps that's what L is counting on. Perhaps L is attempting a similar branch of offensive manouvres he is. Stripping back the false editions laden with errors and misprints, searching for the most accurate score. One piece can be edited and printed with alarming differences, a means for further deception. An evasion of being profiled and understood. The urtext is what is required here, the definitive edition bearing the intent of the composer, the  _person_. Any other edition of Light Yagami or L Lawliet is more or less smoke and mirrors. Light also knows that his current position is heavily reliant on these smoke and mirrors. Only the mirrors are splintered and the smoke is billowing in the wrong direction because already, the  _Alla Turka_  is dancing in his fingertips. Muscle memory betrays him, his right hand etches out the first semiquaver movement. He's twelve again, in the vast concert hall surrounded by applause, the prize in his hands. His father leaning down, stroking his hair fleetingly. 

"He must be very proud of his son-"

_I'm proud of you. I'm proud of you._

"-If this is an interrogation, then just ask him yourself!" Light slams his phone on the table louder than expected, ignoring the people who peer over at the booth. Even L freezes, glacial eyes cracking. He glances down at the phone between them, resisting the temptation to look up. All he has to do is divert his attention to that face. But L doesn't want that, not yet. It's too soon and what he sees may simply be a _projection_ of the real thing. Either way, he's pushed too hard and cheated. Usually that's not a concern. However, the ragged breath that leaves Light's lips stirs something in his stomach. 

"Oh that's not necessary Light," He confesses. "I already did so yesterday." 

" _Wha_ -?" Light hunches over the table, wincing at how quickly the word leaves his mouth. Regathering his thoughts, he straightens his posture and clears his throat. A new movement, fresh start. This can be salvaged if he adheres to the manuscript and follows every direction with precision because yes,  _he is precision_. 

"What did he say?" Back to the absence of sincerity. This inability to surrender a shred of it, L decides, is a blatant demonstration of gross editing. It is enough for the sensation in L's stomach to instantaneously disappear. Cheating is necessary, justified. He's dealing with a commercial publication, a universally pleasing score. The confidential article may take weeks,  _months_ to find at this rate.  

Picking up the phone on the table, L dangles it by the keychain between two fingers. It swings back and forth between them. Then he tosses it towards Light carelessly who catches it with a clammy palm. Chewing on his lip, L stares. 

" _Just ask him yourself_." 

Bastard. 

Light clutches the phone in a vice grip; it's a wonder he has enough restraint to bring the fist  _down_  and not in the direction of that pale, icy face with two gaping holes for eyes. 

"I played Horn in Verona for Soichiro some years ago."  

The Verona tour of 2012. Light recalls it well, he was in the process of applying for scholarships in order to secure his international study in London. His father was often home late from concerts in Tokyo during that time. The Verona tour was one of the first international trips he had made with the Uneru Quintet.  _Wait_  - wasn't that the concert series that has been hailed as one of the ensemble's greatest live performances to date? There had even been talk of a CD recording under Decca. For some inexplicable reason never revealed, the deal fell through. It's the only time his father has had 'unfortunate complications' with a studio contract.

"Mogi's always played horn." Light explains carefully. 

"Yes, well. Unfortunately he was sick with food poisoning and I happened to be in the area."

"That's very...  _convenient._ " Light accents the final quaver despite it causing disjunct motion, eyes narrowing. This time yes, he does have enough grounds to accuse. It would not be out of place to use the words 'selfish sabotage', given the way the events are unfolding. 

"The world works in mysterious ways," L muses pensively,. Light almost jumps when sharp eyes latch onto his without warning. "much like it has decided to throw us together."

Uncrossing his legs, fidgeting slightly to adjust back into his seat, Light finishes the final bit of his coffee. When he sets the cup back down, he is the epitome of calm. He didn't expect anything other than an elusive answer from L Lawliet. That merits an equally elusive comment from himself.

"Apparently so."  _And yet you don't even trust me._

Humming absently between slurps of his sugar-infested tea, L watches his pianist's fingers trace over the table. Light Yagami is inherently musical, that cannot be denied. Music pours from his palms in abundance. Yet he restricts its flow, blocking the natural pathways to build his own fortress. Rather than fingering a piano work, Light has turned to percussive tapping. To a passer by, it may resemble morse code more than it does music.  _Tap-tap-tap tap tap tap-tap tap._  But examining the length of the taps from the perspective of a musician reveals: a set of quaver triplets-two crotchets-two quavers and a crotchet. In short: the instantly recognisable rhythmic motif to Gustav Holst's  _Mars: The Bringer of War._ At present, L Lawliet is uncertain if that's a subliminal message, or simply the choosing of the subconscious. The pianist's face is sculpted into a remarkably vacant look, giving nothing away on the matter. He can almost hear the ominous brass rising up to join the relentless theme, the orchestral forces gradually surrounding them.

It's when Light flicks his wrist to mark a new phrase, hand forming a magnificent clear arc, that L leads into his hidden agenda.

"I hear you're also a conductor?" he supplies with feigned disinterest, because really he is so very interested. 

"I dabble." Light's tapping shifts to a dotted galloping rhythm;  _Uranus: The Magician_. Ah, if only he could magically gallop away from this booth right now into the sunset. If only. 

"I would hardly call some of your maestro achievements  _dabbling_." Lawliet's right about that. He hasn't conducted for a few months, devoting himself solely to piano, but he is often sought out by local chamber groups to run their rehearsals. "If I were you, I would bring them to light more-"

_Did he just-?_

"-What of it anyway?" Light all but snaps. His fingers revert back to Mars - a fraction quicker, L notes with curiosity.If they are sailing through the solar system, he wonders what actions would lead them to  _Jupiter: The Bringer Of Jollity_ , it has always been his favourite movement. 

"Gevanni's currently in Berlin, so evidently he can't take the rehearsal tomorrow evening. Naturally, the responsibility would fall to me but I am also principle Horn." Light's lips twitch at the statement, further confirming his suspicions.  _Heaven forbid_  L Lawliet takes to the conductor's podium and thus surrenders his golden throne to another student for a measly rehearsal. And Light sees it, elated he finally sees  _something_ : the exhibitionist flair and ostracising of  _himself_ from the entire orchestra in order to indulge in his own gifts. The golden throne may as well be a plastic pram with such an attitude. That image alone is enough to force him to stifle a laugh, parts of it slip out.

L bites down on his thumb accidentally at the sound. Apparently, something he has said is amusing to the pianist. L doesn't like private jokes or jokes in general, unless he is the one making them. It's fortunate for Light Yagami's sake that he must depart soon, having begrudgingly promised Watari he would run the performance masterclass in an hour's time - on the condition he  _performs_  for a majority of it. Picking up a sugar cube, he fiddles with it absently. 

"Besides," he adds to his previous appeal. "I think you would do a far better job." Lie. The closest translation being L Lawliet refuses to give up a moment of his spotlight and this is another challenge. For dramatic symbolism, L tosses the sugar cube in his palm across the table like a gauntlet. 

"I'm not part of the institution." Light reasons immediately, considering the consequences of such a challenge in his head.

Imagining the uproar having a  _Wammy's_ student conducting the Kira Symphony Orchestra would have, leads Light to believe the situation here will be no different. L blinks, unaffected by the political complications he  _himself_ had instigated. It was only  _after_ the interviews L Lawliet gave Matsuda on the Kira Academy that the feud fully erupted. Whilst both institutions are civil  _now_ , the memory of that tense year simmers between them. It would only take a slight catalyst to ignite a new series of conflict, anything at all. The top students of each conservatoire collaborating, for instance. But that's mere speculation. Light is assured that Ryuk and Misa have neglected to keep the information to themselves. As there has not been an outbreak of criticism, he's convinced it's not an issue. To be playing with L is impressive for _any_ musician.  _Just as impressive as L playing with me, Light Yagami._

"It's one rehearsal Light." L speaks as if addressing a child. "Hardly as if we were about to take the Royal Albert Hall by storm."

Maybe not, but it's on his horizon with or without L Lawliet. Preferably without, if he's being honest with himself. To play centre stage in such a venue would mark the genesis of his career. Having the French Horn also in the spotlight would give him little chance to shine. It was difficult enough yesterday holding his own against the instrument before submitting to a subservient background role. Such a place isn't fit for him or his style. Like Lawliet, he's a soloist by nature. This accompanying arrangement is nothing more than a gateway to assessing his biggest competition and ensuring future elimination by overwhelming the world with his own talent. Every musician has their weakness and weaknesses can be exploited just as easily as they can be hidden. For his father, it's double-tonguing more specifically the solo passage in Ravel's  _Alborada del Gracioso_. For Misa, it's keeping her middle register bright and supported enough to not flatten; Ryuk's is octaves. L Lawliet has one, and Light is determined to shine that beloved spotlight  _all over it_.

"The orchestra are meeting 7-9.30pm in the concert studio, several hours after our own rehearsal is due to finish," the musician occupying his thoughts reels off the information bluntly. "I trust this means you'll be there?"

"Do I even get a score to prepare?" He'll do it,  _he can do it_ , even without preparation. But standing in front of an orchestra and commanding their respect, especially an orchestra of a 'rivalling' institution, is no mean feat.

"I'm afraid that's not possible." L stands, his hand grazing Light's shoulder. The tips of those bony spindly fingers are precariously close to the nape of his neck. A smirk dusts L's lips as he spares a final glance over his shoulder before leaving. "But I know  _pomp and circumstance_  is something you're all too familiar with."  

"It's been two days, and it's worse than I could have even  _imagined!"_ Beyond hisses, jabbing the piano fiercely. The steinway is unyielding and grumbling, probably because it's a Wammy's steinway and therefore has by default is indifferent to him. That seems to be the general consensus. He tries again; the chords sound prickly, piercing the ears of the dark-haired woman sitting beside him. 

He remembers the idea seeming so  _ingenious_ in his mind in Roger's office last week. Even yesterday, he was revelling in the success of his plan. But today, he witnessed both subjects of his experiment  _together -_ and the outcome was significantly more intense than anything he had procured from individual interaction. Now, he's unsure if the results are fascinating or disappointing or a cruel twist:  _both._ Fascinating because L Lawliet doesn't revolve around people, people revolve around him and somehow this situation turns that on its head. Disappointing because L Lawliet doesn't go to such lengths for an  _accompanist_  which, in general as a collective group of musicians, he openly  _spurns_. Pianists are often nothing more than tools at his disposal, filling the gaps in pieces he can't with his instrument but damn well tries to. If there was a way, L Lawliet would accompany  _himself_. He's selfish enough to only wish to share his musical experience with an audience, never another peer. 

The piano is subjected to a hurricane. His fingers battering the keys forcefully, sweeping up and down its body. He's reached the accelerando too early, and now there's nowhere left for him to turn apart from complete carnage. Naomi Misora is not a musician, but that doesn't mean she is completely out of tune with how such things ought to work. When he stops playing, she frowns at the abrupt unfinished end. 

"They could destroy each other, Naomi." he spits the words out harshly. Lowering his eyes to the ivory keys, Beyond grimaces.  _"I_  want to destroy him."

"No, you don't." Beyond's laugh is hollow because Naomi is right, no he doesn't.  _Of course, he doesn't._ Things would be much simpler if he did.

"I forget sometimes how people can still do that," he taps his ear and grins. _"listen_." his hands descend towards the piano again roughly, another localised storm. Only this time, Naomi sternly catches the stormy clouds.

"Did you look at the scholarship programme?" she asks, methodically steering the conversation away from its inevitable collision. Beyond nods, a little solemn. 

" _And?_ " she probes insistently, there's little chance he will elaborate on his own without cascading back to the source of his turmoil. An extra squeeze to his hands seems to jolt him from his poignant reverie. 

"It was good, yes." he says noncommittally. The clouds break from her hold. Thunder rumbles as he maps out a wholetone trill on middle C. "But now he's set foot there it's impossible." the trill veers into a semitone. 

"By that logic, there are few places left which  _are_  possible."

"I know." Beyond smiles cheerlessly, continuing to trill.

She's noticed during the time they have spent together that he smiles a lot, but it's rarely a smile for the sake of happiness. The smiles are camouflage for the things he wants to be happy about but can't, a guise. Naomi Misora spends her days in the chemistry lab, spotting patterns and anomalies like these. There's something else, though. Something lingering behind that particular smile. When he flashes her the same expression, only a little more amplified, he's baiting her curiosity. It takes her a few seconds during which the trill slows for her to slot the pieces together. 

"… _when_." Raising his eyebrows at her implications, she's always the best listener  _the very best_ , he meets her eyes. 

"New Year." pause. Beyond takes the manuscript off the piano, which definitely  _isn't_ part of Lawliet's recital programme, and smiles. This time it's bordering erratic. "Want to hear my new composition?" 

"Sure." 

"It's not really a composition, I'm just improvising." he admits, having the decency to sound a little abashed when tinkling the top register of the piano. The piano is an open road now. There's no set course, no known destination. Beyond doesn't reprimand Naomi when she prods at one of the notes between his fingers.

"I think we all are." 

By some curious miracle, the note she's randomly chosen is the major third, completing the chord he's mapped out. He hadn't realised how empty it sounded moments before. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Themes are starting to be introduced now, this chapter is built up of parallels and connecting motifs which will continue to shape the story. Here are some notes which explain a few things which may need clarification: 
> 
> 1) Leitmotif - A leitmotif is a short recurring musical phrase associated with a place/person or a concept. I paired it to 'Ryuzaki' to open up the idea that L is a series of leitmotifs all with different connotations. 
> 
> 2) "Better than expected, he has L speaking pointicello." - one of my favourite things about writing this story is using music to create imagery. Pointicello is to play close to the bridge of a stringed instrument, it usually produced quite a 'glassy' eerie sound. It's even quite brittle. I used it not only to try and strike up imagery of the vocal chords, but to capture L's voice in this moment. 
> 
> 3) "Měsíčku, nezhasni, nezhasni! " - Beyond's final words in the first scene is the direct text lifted from "Song to the moon" and the translation into English is "Oh moon, don't disappear, disappear!" . He chooses to say it right when Light is leaving or 'disappearing'. 
> 
> 4) Wiener Urtext is a publishing house founded in Vienna. It prides itself on attempting to create the most authentic edition of a score in relation to the composer's original intentions and articulation/dynamics/markings through study and research of their intentions. Mostly from music in the Baroque up to 19th century, when transcription errors and mistranslation often occurred. Basically, if you wanna play some Bach or something, you go to the Urtext editions for sure. I've got an Urtext and another B&H edition of the Bach Flute Sonatas and the difference between them is astounding when you compare. Some editions take pretty big liberties with phrasing, articulation and other nuances.
> 
> Anyway, the point I was making by throwing Urtext in is to say that Light and L are searching for the most authentic version of themselves perceived BY themselves. They don't want the standard editions, they want the closest thing to the genuine article. 
> 
> 5) I forgot to add in 'segno'. Segno usually marks the end or beginning of a repeated section, so you can spot it with ease. I use it with Beyond to imply this is a habit of repetition for him. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, I have a lot more to say but I'll maybe write it out on tumblr. I'm working on the next chapter right now!


	4. ensemble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM SO EXCITED OHMYGOD. CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS?!!! I AM UPDATING SYMPHONY. Anyway, I'm really deeply sorry about the long wait. Basically, I had a big lapse of confidence in my writing in general. Which made me feel that the ability to pull this story off was impossible. 
> 
> This chapter has one of the biggest moments of the entire story in. IT'S A HUGE MOMENT. I CAN'T WAIT TO SCREAM ABOUT IT WITH YOU WHEN YOU GET THERE AHHH. DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG THIS HAS BEEN PLANNED. So yeah I think I put too much pressure on myself and as a result had to take time out writing. 
> 
> The diegetic music is *really* important. Especially Tchaik 5. The horn solo in the second movement of this symphony is what the most integral scene to this chapter is focused around. That's all I can say or I'll ruin the surprises ;) 
> 
> MUSIC FOR THE CHAPTER-
> 
> Diegetic:
> 
> String Symphony No. 4 in C Minor - Mendelssohn [Amsterdam Sinfonietta]  
> Symphony No. 5 in E minor, Op. 64 - Tchaikovsky [version I've been listening religiously to is conducted by Yevgeny Aleksandrovich Mravinsky]
> 
> Non-Diegetic:
> 
> Last Round pour ensemble a cordes: II. Muertes del Angel - Osvaldo Golijo [Quatuor Debussy & Arranoa - I cannot find a recording of this version anywhere to link I'm so sad, because it's SO BEYOND. The album is called "Octuorissimo"]  
> The Marriage Of Figaro Overture - Mozart [honestly if you can play it when it's mention it might make you laugh omg...]  
> Bolero - Ravel 
> 
> Most of the "Octuorissimo" album was my listening actually.

Their second rehearsal is nothing short of chaos. In the better moments, the music is uncomfortably meshed between their passionate assertions. It’s not quite it’s own entity, nor is it just a duel of virtuosic skills. It’s prideful, overdone. In the average moments, Light wants to take the damn score and chuck it straight at Lawliet’s head. Let the music splash from the pages and drip down that pale face, let the stems of every note tangle in the ludicrous disheveled black hair.

In the _worst_ moments, he’s sure if it were possible he would betray his dear companion beneath his fingertips and _chuck the whole bloody steinway_ at the French Horn player.

The conversation from yesterday is all Light can think about as his fingers carve out the chords instinctively. Or as Lawliet would say _mechanically._ Mechanical things are consistent and repetitive. So to be contrary Light presses the pedal too hard at times, muddying the texture. In response, Lawliet goads the melody into following his own lead with little regard for what the piano is doing. Oh. Because he expects Light to bend to his every whim too. Light doesn’t.

“Why do you condemn the music to your own laws?” Lawliet muses once it’s finally over. He tucks his French Horn under his arm, as if protecting it from Light. A trill forms in Light’s fingers, though he doesn’t press down. That’s what Lawliet wants. A reaction. He wants to forge his own symphony, and Light is his resource. Folding his sheet-music away, Light packs up his rucksack. Having his hands preoccupied will surely prevent them from teetering back to the piano. Which he is certain is _also_ what Lawliet wants, despite him being so obnoxious about it.

“What you’re saying makes little sense. Everything is governed by some sort of law.” Light starts in the epitome of composure. “Without any laws in place, then there’s no direction.”

“You are complacent enough to _inhibit_ her choices?” Before Light has a chance to address the atrocious way Lawliet has twisted his words, the musician briskly shifts tempo. “Yet by doing so, you detract from the nature of music itself. The school of Kira has corrupted your musicality. Such is an injustice that cannot be overlooked at this stage.”

_I’ll show you injustice you pompous ass._

“My musicality may be insistent at times, yes.” Light concedes with a shrug. “But that’s for the best, and an artistic choice. A performance is hinged upon the delivery, L. Nobody wants to hear a self-righteous manifesto tucked into it every cadence.”

The words don’t sting as intended, they _ignite._

“Manifesto?” Lawliet quips back. “Only those following Kira’s law would desecrate the basic foundations and use it as a mere vehicle for their own success.”

The accusation that Light’s musicality is simply forced in able for him to modulate higher and higher sparks something dark inside of the pianist. L doesn’t understand _anything,_ besides his own 'sacred' relationship with music. And he assumes that this is easily transferrable to every musician of his calibre. Only his way of playing is deemed right, and is capable of bringing _justice_ to music. _His ideology_ is built on arrogant, ridiculous expectations. Light’s relationship with music was _born_ out of expectations. He’s a _creature of expectations_ himself.

Rucksack packed, Light heads for the exit silently. It’s been a long day. He’s travelled all the way to Wammy’s Conservatoire again, only to be berated and scorned. Yes, he wants to understand the core of Lawliet’s harmony. Notate it on paper for the world to see and then skew with it. Tamper with the intervals enough for people to turn their heads away in distaste, or squeeze them together forcefully until the notes are bleeding in his hands. But not right now.

Right now, he needs no music. No expectations. No piano. Just silence.

“Where are you going, Light?” Lawliet’s voice has dropped to a pianissimo, there’s a cluster of sharps in there that prickle Light’s skin. Scattering accidentals over his skin, Light leaves without another word.

****

“Things must be going _terribly_ if you’ve purposefully sought me out.” Beyond chimes gleefully from the piano in Roger’s office.

Terribly. How _wonderful._ Although he may have - _definitely did  -_ inadvertently _\- deliberately -_ forged their partnership for the sake of his own amusement, Beyond wants nothing more than to see it perish. Eradicated. Light Yagami and all his immaculate masks to shatter, before he consumes Lawliet completely. Yes, Beyond senses the pivotal force in motion between the two musicians. This is the tipping point of _so much_. Are they witnessing the birth of the greatest musician partnership of the century? Or is this going to be the curtain call of L Lawliet’s entirety…

Curtain call. It’s all or nothing from this point on. Steal the show in harmony, or drop out spectacularly. He’s not being hyperbolic, either. Beyond _knows_ Light Yagami has every desire to sit on the throne beside music herself, a crown of symphonies on his head. To do that, he has to obliterate the opposition, by whatever means possible. And Lawliet is encased in a chasm of power kings of old could only dream of having. But Beyond is observant. He listens, unlike Lawliet. He has come to hear far more in the melodies of people than they may ever care to have expressed.

Embedded in Light’s sequence of speech is the nervous tapping of a bow against the strings a fraction too early. So much so it makes a noise quiet enough to disrupt the entire flow of what’s come before if one is looking for it. Mixed with the oversight of a woodwind player, overblowing ever so slightly - it’s clear. Light Yagami is not a pillar of perfection. He’s cemented in very real insecurities and fears. He is scared. And that’s _good._ Beyond thinks when dealing with Lawliet, anyone should he should be.

Helping Lawliet is out of the question, or at least _voicing_ it. Letting Light succeed in his efforts is just as unacceptable. Beyond wants him to _feel_ the music crumbling to ashes between his fingers. All whilst Lawliet walks away. _Because he always walks away._ He’s the phrase many strive to complete their music with, but fall short. Lawliet will walk away. Soon he will be nothing more than an illusion reflected in the body of the burning piano.

And just like smoke, Lawliet will evapourate from Light’s life.

Because Light Yagami doesn’t _deserve_ any credit, or attention. Nobody does. Yet Lawliet’s still giving it in copious amounts. Lawliet _giving_ anything makes little sense in itself. Not to mention, their rehearsal went over by thirty-five minutes. It’s pathetic _god he knows it is._ But Beyond spend the entire duration of Light Yagami and L Lawliet’s rehearsal watching the clock and waiting for it to end. But like the bloody _Bolero,_ they just kept going and going. Undoubtedly through the same themes, too.

Beyond recalls their own years of playing together, an unpleasant surge crescendoing through his memory. It’s something foreign. Every time he thinks of it, it never sits quite right in his mind. Despite him being _certain_  it had been fine the last time. He has to break the memory in continuously. Like a wind player with a new reed.

“I was looking for Roger, actually.” Light remarks coolly. Beyond is perched over the stool, hand lazily tracing some sort of melody Light is unfamiliar with. Nor does he want to be, quite frankly. His patience is running short, like that of the Cello’s in _Pachelbel's Canon._

“Oh, well he’s not here.” Beyond says, just to be purposefully obtuse.

He’s irritated in himself, because the resolve has thawed. He doesn’t want Light Yagami to win. But he realises to his own dismay, he also doesn’t _really_ want him to fail. Or burn. If anything should burn, it’s _him._ Set his whole soul ablaze. It’ll be a bigger and better sensation than anything Lawliet has ever given him. He wonders if Lawliet would douse the fire. Or would he _encourage_ it? Beyond isn’t sure what he’d like more. _Damn it all...I’m far too affected._ Slamming a tritone down on the piano, he purses his lips. Light is unfazed, seemingly _also_ caught in the aftermath of Lawliet.

This is exactly the problem. Light Yagami may want to consume Lawliet. But it is _Lawliet_ who consumes all. Effortless. _Careless._ Relentless. The musician ploughs through on his own terms, unconcerned with what he leaves in his wake.

Blinking a triplet, Light strides towards the shelves and shelves of scores. _Yeah, no kidding Roger isn’t here._ Pointedly, he ignores Beyond Birthday and all of his jarring dynamics. This is his peace and _his piece._ The rehearsal with the orchestra is tonight, and Light hasn’t even managed to _source_ the scores because Lawliet refused to provide them. He _also s_ uspects that Lawliet augmented their rehearsal in order to chip into his preparation time. Bastard.

“How do people even deal with him.”

The words have left his lips before he can stop them. A fleeting thought now vocalised. Beyond lifts his hand from the piano. He moves up a third and plays another tritone.

“Do enlighten me when you’ve found the answer, won’t you?” _You won’t._ But maybe he will. Beyond craves resolution with Lawliet, though he already believes the only person capable of that could be standing in front of him.

“You remind me of him a little.” Light admits, glancing over to the _scherzo_ who is currently so serene. Too serene for a _scherzo_ . The _scherzo_ snorts indignantly, hand accidentally pressing down on a cluster of notes from the force of the action. _That’s better._

“Ha! Did you tell dear Lawliet that?”

 _Dear Lawliet._ The endearment is clearly mocking. But Light knows how to play the games Beyond dabbles in. For some reason, the thought that it _isn’t_ mocking and simply a blunt truth tossed out because _Light is here_ bothers him. No, it angers him. The emotion a sforzando in his stomach. He notices it then, and anger is replaced with newfound interest. Beyond isn’t the firecracker he seems. He isn’t the flamboyancy he dons. This _scherzo_ of his, it is the brooding sort of _scherzo._ The one that has everything to hide.

“I asked if you two were related.” Light sheepishly smiles over his shoulder. A lie. He’s not quite sure _what it is_ yet, but something about this statement is bound to unbalance the _scherzo._

 _Oh, now that’s good._ Beyond tilts his head, almost losing balance on his seat. Because that just there. The onslaught of decorum slathered over something darker. Light Yagami is like the ocean. Dull and monotonous as a whole, the surface is at least. To really see, one needs to dive. Lawliet’s libretto is finely polished. Attempting to analyse the text will bring about an almighty headache. Light’s, on the other hand, is laced with the most lyrical lies. And Beyond is reminded of this contrast in waves, unexpected and totally engaging.

“Ah,” Beyond offers vaguely, grinning into his hand. “Yes, that explains it.” he does the best thing he can: throw the pianist a bone he will never be able to chew.

Light’s brow furrows at the implications. _Are_ they related? No. That can’t be it. Any sibling of Lawliet would surely be boastful of their brother’s talent. Or at least acknowledge it. So something else, then. He pulls a random score on the shelf to read. But all he sees in the notes is Lawliet. The dots form attentive eyes. Shoving the score back in its place, Light searches desperately for another.

Is there a history here he isn’t aware of? ‘ _That explains it’_ \- _what does that mean. What has been explained?_  

Pleased with the response, Beyond grows tired of teasing. He leans over Light’s shoulder to pluck the _Elgar_ score from Roger’s collection.

“Gevanni is not in Berlin, by the way.” he holds the book out, a slow mischievous vibrato in his tone. “L requested he took the evening off.”

The words and their implications earn him a small gasp of surprise. Beyond feels slightly better. At the very least, this pianist is truly a marvel to study up close. There’s so much lurking beneath the layer Light presents to the world. It is with bitter resignation, that Beyond has come to understand _why_ Lawliet is ensnared. Unravelling Light Yagami, uncoiling the neatly woven facade, is an exciting challenge in itself. Lawliet has always been curious about the root of a person’s chord. The inversions are quickly discarded. Inversions are easy distractions, irrelevant and lacking the authenticity he wishes to scrutinise.

“As much as I’d like to watch you squirm on the podium,” _like the worm you are that could rot away everything inside Lawliet_. “You best take these.” He grabs the stack of scores on Roger’s desk, thrusting them into Light’s arms. There’s too much of an accent in his actions. As a result, Light struggles for a moment to balance the music.  

“And if you _really_ want to insult the bastard,” Light’s eyes are drawn to him quickly, heeding his every word. It does wonders for Beyond’s fractured assurance. It’s a reminder, he’s got the majority of L Lawliet scored out. Light is just beginning to manoeuvre around the colossal cycle. Dangling it tauntingly in front of the pianist _Lawliet chose_ is entirely satisfying. 

"Omit the whole second movement of Tchaik 5 from rehearsal.”

Light is no longer focused on Beyond, or his attempts to lure him into a sense of entitlement. He has no intention to gain L’s attention permanently. No. The moment Lawliet gives an inch, he’ll strike. At this stage, there's no harm in hinting as much to Beyond Birthday. 

“Actually, that’s my focus point.”

Honestly, Beyond doesn’t expect such a daring move. He’s simultaneously thrilled and apprehensive. _What are you planning, Yagami? There’s no way you can dismantle L’s legacy in one rehearsal... **is there?** _

“That’s something I simply cannot miss,” he smoothly announces. Keeping watch- no. Mapping out the scores at best. Lawliet doesn’t need a shadow, he barely needs his own. “Ryuk and I will be watching.”

 

 

Light Yagami doesn't expect his attention to gravitate _immediately_ towards L at the beginning of the orchestra rehearsal, like a dominant is drawn to the tonic. There’s nothing he dislikes more than being so openly predictable, _readable_ . However, it's increasingly difficult to ignore the way L perches in the seat, an unfitting position for any brass player to get the best possible tone - yet alone any _human being_. Setting the score onto the music stand, Light steps onto the podium and exhales, an exasperated diminuendo.

"Can't you at least sit _normally_ for this?" he asks incredulously, locking his eyes onto the musician who is doing just about everything to make him feel more uncomfortable than he would be sitting beside a piccolo during _Tchaikovsky Symphony IV, Movement III._ Murmurs swell through the crescent arched around him. L himself for a moment seems taken aback by Light's _audacity_ to speak to him in front of other students so boldly.

"If I sit any other way, then my musical abilities drop by forty percent." L announces, pressing his thumb into the corner of his mouth. His tone is flat, but the words are sharp enough to slice. And if that isn’t the biggest piece of nonsense Light’s _ever heard in his life_ then he doesn’t know what is.

"Alright." Light offers a dazzling smile, seemingly unfazed by L's retort. Internally, he's reeling. Addressing the whole orchestra, Light raises his hands. In fluid sync, instruments are brought into position. "Let's begin with the _Andante cantabile_."

Out of the corner of his eyes, he notices L's feet curl around the edge of the chair tighter. A laugh builds in his chest and it's difficult to suppress because _oh_ \- if this is the reaction to their _Overture_ which has barely started, he can hardly wait for the grand _Finale._

As Light brings his hand down, the first notes tingling in his fingers, the orchestra anticipate the start. Then it begins, and the music trickles tentatively into the melancholic first chord. Whispered by the strings, building and building through sombre ripples created in his palms. But not without the sense of a forwards rhythm which mercilessly prevents the strings from wavering too long. Light is like a puppeteer of music, almost. Pull back a fraction on the strings and _the strings_ _themselves_ are suspended for a short moment. Push, and the momentum springs further. Exactly as planned.

Conducting is exhilarating. He’s always believed so. In every minute gesture of his hands, Light can mould huge towers of sound. Then with a flick of his wrist, he can destroy them. He can create a whole new world through his fingertips in absolute control of the conditions and parameters. Here, he could be a God. The orchestra is a body, which breathes on his command. It follows his every whim unconditionally. He is bringing that body to life, churning whatever he wants from it. It's power, the _greatest power_. Even the music cannot protest or argue. It speaks, but only under his direction. It moves, but only under his choreography. Obediently, it recreates his fantasies. The eyes of every student flicker up to him to follow the instructions he sets; his commandments are the main authority here. Such compliance is thrilling to him.

And then there's _L._

The note in the scale that doesn't belong, the distortion in the sound waves.

Light gazes up as the strings wither away with the gentle swipe of his hands. He expects L to meet him here in the brief stasis, as his hands stretch this moment to allow a clean entry. L doesn't. The Horn resonates without following Light's cue, introducing the familiar motif. It's a beautiful rounded sound, every note full of its own short-lived life with a story to tell which could span decades. And that's exactly why Light swirls his hand into a fist, choking the music abruptly. It's not L Lawliet's place to decide the balance of the music's life and death. As the conductor, it's _his_. L pulls the Horn from his mouth reluctantly.

"Horn 1," Light’s lips twitch when L's fingers press into the keys of his instrument at the refusal to use his name. "We should take a brief moment there before the solo." pause. The tension is thick already, a dissonance that has been muddied by the sustained pedal of a piano. Light keeps his foot down, and adds another chord - a strident clash of disjointed notes cascade over the texture.

"Just follow me." he lifts his hands again and the orchestra comply, L deliberately a fraction behind. "That very bar, bar 8," upbeat. "and-"

The strings rise warmly as Light hits the downbeat. They ebb away into the pianissimo as Light kneads the sound into a smaller entity between his hands. Shutting his eyes, he subtly moves the contrabass into the rumbling dissonance. The Viola rises up to hit the third, an F sharp. The music hangs in the balance of his grasp. It's a delicate equilibrium which will shift slightly in the next bar. As Light makes the preparation for the solo, the Horn cuts through the texture without permission. Lowering his hands, Light's eyes snap open irritably. The balance is lost.

"You need to follow me, _L_ ." He repeats. This time when he lifts his hands, he turns to the orchestra and smiles _dolce con molto espressivo._ "You can rest, just the Horn and I for now."

There's a poorly muffled gasp from one end of the room, and at least a dozen of students' backs stiffen as if having heard blasphemy. The boy in white pyjamas at the timpani is twiddling his hair a little more insistently, a sudden agitato in his movements. L Lawliet purses his lips behind the mouthpiece; his instrument serves as a shield for the shift in his darkening expression. He seldom resorts to using his instrument in such a way. The Horn is not a means for defence or attack. It is simply his companion on the pathway music provides. Strapping chainmail to its body is not necessary. It's exactly the kind of thing he's seen Light Yagami do countless times with the piano. Music is not a battle. No, it never should be.

Yet here, in the concert studio of Wammy's Conservatoire, it's become a war.   

"Stand up." Light instructs politely, signalling with a hand. But it's not polite at all, it's as outrageous as the premier of Stravinsky's _Rite Of Spring._ Pulling the Horn closer on instinct, L teeters on the edge his seat. His balance wavers like a beginner's unstable vibrato. As he stands, Light continues smoothly.

" _It's your big moment_."  

He beats an _entire bars_ entry, counting every measure aloud patronisingly. From the corner of his eye, Light sees the bassist decked in black leather shuffle in their seat. All eyes dart between the conductor and the soloist. Nobody expects L Lawliet to _miss_ the beat. But he does, by a whole measure. Raising an eyebrow, Light glances over to the Horn player. Lawliet is seething at Light’s theatrics. The Horn may as well be blowing out steam. How delightful.

“Sorry. _”_ Light bares his teeth in a smile with far too much bite. Then he forces a laugh. Some of the orchestra repeat it nervously in hopes to bring round a calm plagal cadence. One which doesn’t come, because Light is in possession of the flattened seventh and he is not letting go of the keys any time soon. “Maybe I wasn’t clear enough.”

“You were quite _transparent,_ actually.” Lawliet snaps from behind the mouthpiece of the Horn, barely audible. Still, Light hears the inflection of his voice and stifles a grin. _We’ve only just begun, L. This is the first match._

Carelessly, Light tosses L the downbeat once more. He hopes the lazy nature of it won’t catch. He hopes to see the _great L_ miss twice. But Lawliet is remarkably perceptive this time, snatching the opportunity up without hesitation. Deuce. Light bounces back with ease, steering and shaping the melody needlessly. And for a moment, L _complies_ . They exchange back and forth fluidly. It’s Lawliet’s own brand of defiance, doing _precisely_ what Light Yagami intends. Like reading the music for face value, cheapening the pockets of raw expression because Light is anything but sincere here. If he wishes for music to be his masquerade, then L will gladly strip away that mask.

Clenching his teeth, Light’s gaze bursts into _spiccato_ as the rendering becomes jagged and stilted. _If I stop him now, it’ll be obvious I’ve overdone the phrasing on purpose to trip him up. But if I let him continue, then I might as well be telling the entire orchestra that L Lawliet is the one to follow. Damn him!_ His beats get more weighted, as if the shift is capable of tearing through the clean tone of the French Horn. Lawliet effortlessly meets every twist and turn, propelling the wall of sound towards Light. Then the stalemate wavers, and Light dives in.  

“Ah, ah, ah. Don’t fight me, Lawliet _._ ” He coos, holding up a hand. L takes two further seconds to stop out of spite, the end of his note not so round and smooth as before.

The bassoonist, who saw it fit to wear goggles, is shaking his head. Disbelief etched into his expression.

“Once more.”

From the timpani, mallets are tapped against the skin. A warning perhaps. Light has no desire to heed it, or give the white-haired percussionist any of his attention. Squandering this glorious moment would be a big mistake. Instead, Light starts them off into the solo again.

"You dipped pitch a little, it's flat," He speaks over the Horn seconds later, bringing it to another abrupt halt. "Your posture can't be helping with that."

Straightening his back as a demonstration, Light's eyes twinkle with silent satisfaction. In reality, the podium is only a few inches off the ground. But right here, he's untouchable. Standing precariously on the tip of _The Shard_ , and from here the great L is just a tiny spec on the ground. A splatter of ink on the corner of a composer's manuscript. His shadow can eclipse the musician with ease, press down and smear the blotched ink with the soles of his shoes.

L holds all the fury of an unstable rendering of _Flight Of The Bumblebee_. His rage undulates like the chromatic swells of frantic scales - because he’s is perfectly in tune. His pupils are contracted, smaller dots on silver like staccato. There’s a poorly scribbled up-bow woven into the crease of his forehead, a down-bow smothered over his lips.

And that's fantastic, _so fantastic_ . More than Light could have hoped for. Such _articulation_ on that face! After a moment’s hesitation, Lawliet adjusts his posture. Raising a hand, Light maps the pathway for him. He’s deceptive this time, refusing to give the Horn enough of a pulse to truly decipher. Lawliet settles for something _anything_ in haste to win, to overpower the conductor. And as he does so, the impossible happens.

The music grows stunted. A serene melody quivers at the peak. Light revels in the colossal slip, throwing them down the other side of the curve recklessly. Lawliet attempts to reel it backwards but it’s too late. Light has roped him in and it’s a rapid plummet downwards. The Horn topples powerlessly over the edge and cracks open. It lands with a clumsy, squawk.

Silence.

Followed by a chorus of gasps.

Because _L Lawliet_ has just split his note.

Tilting his head, Light glances over in feigned concern. He brings his hand down, a victorious tremolo rushing through his veins.

“Should we take a break?”

“Oh, _come on!!_ ” The blond double bassist exclaims, jumping out of his seat. “This is ridiculous-”

“-Mello.” Lawliet’s voice _sounds_ calm, but his eyes are a storm. Immediately, the boy hushes and sits down petulantly. Envious of the authority Lawliet has, despite his blunders, Light inhales. A semiquaver. Too fast for his lungs. He almost splutters.

“Everybody this time.”

Lawliet remains to be the misprint that needs erasing. Slowly, he climbs back into his chair, pulling his French Horn closer. The angle is slightly off, and Light realises he’s pointed the bell _straight at him._ As if a cannon, ready to fire. _Give it your best shot L, you’ve already lost this round._ Light brings the strings back into the introduction. His well formulated passage is compromised by the double bassist. Mello punches accents feistily into every note. It throws off the rhythm of the whole piece, to Light’s dismay. He looks over cautiously, startled to find the boy staring right back at him jaw clenched.

That’s only the start. Mello’s bout of protest cultivates a resistance amongst the strings which bow to the oncoming Horn solo. Light's standing on the podium, whole staves above on the manuscript. But no longer above L. As the horn cuts in, he's losing the height, _control._ He's sinking as L brazenly continues up and up. All the while he’s going further down, down down. The strings won’t soften his fall this time, and he needs more than _anything_ to ascend back up to the top. Because that’s where _he_ belongs. The conductor is the integral component to a symphony orchestra, _not_ those in the seats. Those who are _supposed_ to be following his direction, yet are arrogantly paving their own path through the music.

And irritatingly, there’s a tremor. Light feels it. The orchestra waver further under his direction, a dangerous accelerando totally off the score. Light’s next upbeat is fierce, as if he is hauling entire concert halls up into his grasp. But still, the orchestra is tugged out of his current, gravitating towards L’s _every note_. An unwarranted bugle call. The air feels thicker, every beat Light marks is stretched. Every nuance dictated by the French Horn. Suddenly, movements are heavier than before. As if his hands are shackled together and restricted. Lawliet has chained him to this. Prisoner to subservience, Light’s fingers curl over in a way unnatural for any conductor. He’s furious.

The magnificent sound of the orchestra wilts into an awkward finish, no longer certain of Light’s intentions. Thumb sliding across his lips, Lawliet sets his instrument down. He’s not bothering to hide the rife amusement waltzing in his eyes. Cocking his head to the side, mimicking LIght’s earlier expression perfectly, Lawliet speaks.

_“Should we take a break?”_

Light struggles to remain neutral. Those dark eyes are fixed on him, waiting for the countermelody. How dare he. How _dare_ he deflect - with Light’s _own_ repertoire. The bassoonist stifles a laugh. Mello smirks. Erupting from behind Light is a familiar cackle. _Ryuk._ Glancing over his shoulder coldly, Light spots Ryuk sitting in the top row besides a rather smug Beyond Birthday. He’d forgotten all about his spectators in the heat of the battle. The pair of them look almost _exultant -_ like they’ve spent a night at the Opera, the bright overture to _The Marriage Of Figaro_ is smeared shamelessly all over their expressions.

Resolutely, Light turns back to the orchestra. Meeting Lawliet’s eyes, he smiles. Between his eyes and lips, the gesture is a false relation. Lawliet identifies it immediately, petulantly imitating it with all the will to make Light Yagami into the farce he's so intent on being. Forcing his focus away, Light adjusts the scores on the music stand. He’s had enough of the French Horn. Enough of L. A coy melody creeps into his head. What better way to quell Lawliet than giving _him_ the break.

“Let’s look at the _Mendelssohn_ String Symphony now.”

Light’s eyes flicker over to Lawliet, eager to see the reaction. But the musician is already packing away his instrument, as if he had _predicted_ Light’s move and was prepared for it. As if he’d _memorised_ the programme of Light Yagami’s personal recital before it was even announced. _You are predictable, mechanical._ Mechanical. _You are mechanical._ is the message scrawled into the tempo pulsating in Light’s ears far too loud. Desperately, he claws time into a fermata. Lawliet marches determinedly away from it. He walks away from the game. _No. This isn’t right._ L lost by a landslide, he has to understand that.

Yet still, like his pristine instrument, there’s not a dent in him. Or his retreat.

Light lifts his hands gracefully for the _Andante_ , moulding the strings into a round sound.

And immediately, in the moments where the strings are hushed and gentle, he can hear the French Horn haunting him, piercing through the texture. Closing his eyes, Light tries to focus on the anatomy of the piece instead. The strings are breathing in groupings of three leisurely. The viola and second violins glide in arpeggiated motion to introduce the harmony, whilst the bass plays pedals for emphasis. Yes. No French Horn. Reaching the second bar, Light opens his eyes and leads them forwards.

Mello seems a little irritated to be so static on the bass, Light pulls the tempo back a fraction more- purely to gloat. Perhaps it’s a little childish, but it’s _also_ musical to lilt the edges of the bar here. Then he’s greet by a warm _dolce._ The first violins enter cleanly into the texture on his command. It’s all fine. Everything is progressing nicely. Just as he wants it to. But there is one person who takes his cue into their own hands. A cue that wasn’t even _meant_ for them, because they’re not _in_ the orchestra.

From the corner of his eyes, Light spots Beyond Birthday floating towards the exit. The way he moves is so effortlessly fluid, footsteps barely breaking the pulse of the music. But there’s a problem, he’s not with Ryuk, which has to mean he’s going to seek out _Lawliet._ Their own little duet. Honestly, Light isn’t sure how he feels about that, or why he thinks he could feel _anything_ about that. The calm blue waters of the _Andante_ the strings have been swimming through quickly shifts. Murky green. Uncomfortable as Light’s beats become distracted and inconsistent. Beyond glances over his shoulder curiously, noting the subtle shift in the direction. There’s a slur woven into his lips, pulling them upwards. His eyes are bursting with own _humoresque_ , as if relishing a private joke.

Light casts his eyes back to the orchestra, refusing to let the other pianist get the better of him. He refuses to look further than the first row of strings from that point on. He doesn’t need to look up to feel the musician has gone.

Beyond, rather selfishly, plucks the final pizzicato himself.

 

Lawliet is exactly where Beyond predicts he’d be: in the practice room adorned with his initial (rather pretentiously). Though it’s curious that not a single sound is coming from the room. No majestic French Horn melodies resonate. Through all his time at Wammy’s Conservatoire, Beyond can’t remember a moment Lawliet _hasn’t_ taken advantage of a space to fill it with his own music-making. Light Yagami appears to have cornered him into silence.

Stepping inside, Beyond dislikes this Opus. _Op. 18 for piano._ Because yes, L Lawliet is sat _at the piano._ He is almost eye-level with the keys, long fingers are examining every detail of the instrument. It’s unnatural.

“Upon hitting a key,” Lawliet presses down. A low G rumbles. “the hammer mechanism springs into action. A hammer then hits the corresponding string, setting into motion a single note…”

Rolling his eyes, _god he hates it when Lawliet is like this,_ Beyond refuses to indulge whatever embellished, grandiose metaphor is lodged in the man’s throat. Instead, he gets to the point.

“Speaking of notes, he made you split one.”

Nudging Lawliet, Beyond sits beside him on the seat. He places an A over the G. It’s unintentional. He chose offhandedly, and he doesn't grasp the gravity of what he’s just done. Until Lawliet is actually looking at him. _Really looking._ Glancing down, he sees it. _The A._ He’s played the A. Swiftly, he exchanges it for a B. But the undertones of that are _even worse._ Unsurprisingly, their collaboration is brief. Meaningless and lacking purpose as always. Scowling, Lawliet removes his hand and _himself._ Whether he’s unimpressed with what he’s glimpsed in those notes or Beyond’s accusation, it’s unclear.

“Light didn’t _make_ me do anything.”

Of course it had to be the latter. Of course it’s Light. _Of course._ Beyond hits the A again without thinking. Reaching for his French Horn, Lawliet narrows his eyes. For a second, it seems Beyond has him again. Though the next words reveal the obvious, unfortunate truth.

“And Light certainly didn’t _make music_ . He _used it._ ”

“You mean to say that you _don’t_ use it?”

“It’s different.” is what the musician settles for. Lawliet must really be stung, because he rarely ever lies so poorly. It should be a thrill to discover this, all his inconsistencies. However, knowing the cause of it makes it all the less thrilling. _Light Yagami._

“Do you really believe yourself to be the exception?” Yes - _Lawliet is always the exception._ Beyond stifles a laugh. He can’t let it show, least of all the ludicrous fondness trickling into it which should have no place here.

“I am not an exception, no.”

“Then what are you?” Beyond strives to keep the avid curiosity out of his voice. But he’s already failed by the first syllable and everything nestled in between. _What am I. What is Light Yagami. What is this. What are we. What were we._

Lips twitching, as if something is funny about the question, Lawliet looks away. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he walks away.

He’s always walking away.

_One day, that's going to change._

One day, Beyond will be the one walking away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope that the conducting scene was intense. I spent so long on it. It's the biggest scene this story has had so far. It's meant to be really exciting and scandalous. I even conducted it all out myself to try and describe the phrasing of the music exactly how Light is trying to shape it. 
> 
> And the moment the THING happens, is hopefully a huge "oh holy shit" moment when reading. 
> 
> \- Parts of the 'orchestra scene' are meant to resemble the tennis match between L and Light in canon. Not entirely, but I wanted to pay homage to the dynamic of that scene. 
> 
> \- BEYOND IS SO IMPORTANT TO THE STORY AND I'M REALLY GLAD HE IS GETTING SO MUCH TIME TO GROW AS WELL. 
> 
> \- We get a small glimpse of the Wammy's. Sorry it wasn't much. But it made no sense to write a big scene for them here. 
> 
> \- btw I have nothing against the Bolero hahah. It's not a favourite piece of mine, sure. In Beyond's eyes it was the perfect piece to use in that analogy. 
> 
> \- Thematically, in this whole chapter there's this whole repetition of a character "walking away". It happens a lot intentionally. Sometimes I use the exact same phrasing of sentences in the scenes. And I liked having the opening and ending scene almost parallel each other. Light walking out of the practice room, not answering a question. L doing the same thing later to Beyond. 
> 
> \- JUST TO CLARIFY. A slur in music is an articulation. So when Beyond has a "slur" on his lips that's what I mean. It's meant to represent a little smirk. I am not at all inferring he is thinking what most assume a "slur" can mean. 
> 
> I really really really hope you liked it. Next time we're at the "Servant Jazz Quarters" at the Shinigami Six gig. We'll also be at the halfway point of the story - woohoo!!


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